


Targaryen Loyalist - Repost

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grown Folk Shit - AKA Smutty Times Ahead, Jon Connington and the Golden Company have a fucking purpose, Jon is not a Season 8 Extra, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Season 8, This shit is wayyyyy canon divergent since I orignally posted it back in 2018!, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 10:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 96,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20151952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: My first ever fic posted to AO3 - Jon Connington learns he, like many others, has a role to play in the wars to come.  My speculative Season 8 fic following the events of Season 7, from wayyyy before D&D kinda forgot about story cohesiveness.  What should you expect?  Oh, I don't know, parentage reveals, smut, the Starks not being absolute shitfaces.  You know, everything we didn't get with the real season 8.





	1. Part 1:  Chs 1-16

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Superarrow1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superarrow1/gifts).

> Originally published to AO3 wayyyy back in March of 2018, when we were all sweet summer children. Canon divergent as fuck now, as you will see. Use of characters as they ought to have been used, especially our boy Jon Con and the Golden Company. This work is unfinished, and posted in one long one-shot as opposed to the multi-chapter work it originally was. SuperArrow1 - I saw your request, that you only got halfway through this when I took it down, so here you go pal! Enjoy!

Title: Targaryen Loyalist  
by NorthernLights37  
  
Summary:

Jon Connington has kept many secrets since the destruction of House Targaryen. He will serve that House once more, in the Great War. Jon Snow is a dragon and a wolf, and it is time he learns the truth, for only the last two Targaryens and the last two dragons can save the Realms of Men from the Long Night.

  
  
Notes:

Note: As the TV version of GOT has combined the storylines of Jon and Young Griff/Aegon Targaryen, it seemed to me that Jon Connington’s devotion to the boy he believes to be Rhaegar’s last living son would transfer over to Jon Snow. Therefore I’m blending the two as best I can to create what I imagine would be a likely path for him on the show. I am operating under the assumption that Bran is actually wrong in 7x07 when he says that only he and Samwell know the truth about Jon’s parentage. I find it far more likely that Jon Connington knows, that Benjen likely knew at least some if not all, and of course Howland Reed knows. As always Jon Snow knows nothing but he will be learning much shortly. As the Golden Company has been contracted by Cersei and Euron, I will attempt to write what I *hope* to see, but I doubt I’ll kill off as many people. As far as timing is concerned, while we saw the juxtaposition of boatsex over Sam/Bran’s convo at Winterfell, in this story boatsex happens earlier than Sam’s return to Winterfell, putting the fall of the wall at Eastwatch happening about the time our intrepid Targaryens arrive at Winterfell.  
This is gonna get smutty. Fair warning. As far as incest concerns, while many of the relationships on the show would be distasteful in modern-day context, the pairings that are not directly sibling to sibling (Jamie and Cersei, most Targaryen marriages) were unfortunately common in the time period GRRM modeled GOT after. Most nobility, especially regionally, had some shared blood amongst them back then. Hell, even Ned Stark’s parents were cousins (Rickard and Lyarra Stark). If you can’t stomach it, you probably don’t want to read this.

  
  
Published at: 2018-01-28  
Revised at: 2018-07-10 08:00:00 -0400  
  
Chapter 1: Dragon Dreams  


Jon Connington stood at the end of the world, amidst a sea of ice and snow, watching the dead swarm the living.

He knew it was a dream while it happened; he’d had this same dream for many nights now, knew what was coming next. He watched from above as the tight circle of men turned their backs to each other, fighting off waves of dead, mindless soldiers. Their swords flashed in the gloom, swings becoming more desperate, and Jon took in a deep breath for what would come next.

A loud screech filled the air as dragonfire poured above the fighters, blanketing the dead and halting their assault. Although he’d witnessed this scene before, he couldn’t stop the thrill in his heart as he watched the great beasts wheel about, scorching the Army of the Dead while a small figure atop the great Black dragon swooped low and landed to save the men trapped in the center of that great icy lake. His breath stuttered out in gusts of icy vapor, and he marveled at the chill that seeped into his very marrow. He’d never been this cold. He watched the living scramble for the dragon, one figure breaking away to fight off the dead still streaming towards the group. And just as every other night, as his eyes took in the dragons in all their glory, he sighed. If only Rhaegar had lived to see this, the sigil of his house alive and as full of magic as the legends they’d learned as boys.

A hand clapped on his shoulder and he started in fright, turning slowly to see his closest friend, dead to him for decades. As his eyes met Rhaegar’s he realized he could hear nothing of the fight below. His eyes darted back and then widened. Everything had simply…stopped. The army of the dead, the Dragon Queen and her beasts, the Northmen in their furs – they were as still as statues, as frozen as the miles of ice surrounding them.

He turned his head back to Rhaegar, meeting the violet eyes he thought he’d never see again, his gazing scanning the form of the Prince he’d failed, and he felt that buried grief rising to the surface.

“No, Jon. Do not trouble your heart with what has come before. All happened as it must, my friend, and all are finally where they must be.” Rhaegar embraced him then, his brother in all but name, and he felt a measure of peace wash over him.  
“Is this real, Rhaegar?” Jon nodded down to the scene below, every figure still motionless.

“Yes, my friend. This battle you see before you has already come to pass. The Long Night is upon us at last, and the dead march on the realms of the living.” Rhaegar’s face become solemn and sad, his voice heavy and low as he spoke. “The time has come to fight this Great War. The time has come for you to play your part, or all will be lost. I want to show you something.” Rhaegar placed his arm around Jon’s shoulder then suddenly, in that way of dreams, he found himself on the field of the battle he’d only watched in night’s past, following Rhaegar as he released him to stride amongst the dead men towards the living. 

They came to a halt before the dragon, men frozen in the act of climbing aboard as Rhaegar approached the rider atop the great animal. Jon gasped as finally saw her, for while he knew that she must be the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, he’d never been close enough to see her clearly. 

Rhaegar nodded beside him, knowing where his mind was heading. “She looks so much like my mother, doesn’t she Griff?” His voice was soft with pride, but Jon could send the layer of grief beneath it. “Barely a woman grown but so much suffering in such a short life.” Rhaegar placed his hand upon the dragon’s snout, a sigh escaping as he looked upon the sister he hadn’t lived to meet. Jon looked upon her, seeing the terror in her gaze as she reached down to aid a Northman below, but seeing that ribbon of steel inside. Queen Rhaella had possessed a kind heart and a gentle soul, but this girl had the look of one who’d been tempered by the fire of Fate itself.

“She holds the power to save the Realms of Men in her veins. She must be protected.” Rhaegar walked away from the group to the lone figure that stood apart, his sword lowered and ready to strike the dead men that approached. Rhaegar moved to stand in front of the man and Jon slowly moved closer, circling around to see the swordsman’s face for the first time. This time his gasp was audible and he looked at Rhaegar, stunned, to see the Last Dragon’s eyes were tear-filled but proud. Rhaegar nodded and raised his hand to the young man’s cheek, cupping it as he stared at him, drinking him in as like a man quenching a thirst that could never be sated. Jon felt his own eyes water as he gazed upon this face, and marveled at the sight. The biggest secret in the realms, one he’d kept along with few others for so long, and here he stood. He felt a hand slide into his and turned once more, already anticipating the flint gray eyes he would meet. 

“Oh, Lyanna.” She embraced him sweetly and he buried his head in her shoulder, overcome at the sight of her. She pulled away and squeezed his hand before approaching her beloved and the frozen form of her son, kissing Rhaegar’s cheek and sliding into his side as they gazed upon this man now grown.

“The King in the North, they call him. He shall have more names before this war is over, Griff. He is the son of Ice and Fire, the blood of the First Men and Old Valyria. He’s been raised a Northern bastard all his life.” Lyanna stopped and smiled at the young man, stepping forward and placing her hand over his heart. “He has the heart of a Wolf, but his soul…his soul is the Dragon.” The smile slipped from her face as she and Rhaegar walked closer to him, their faces growing grave.

Rhaegar spoke first, clasping Jon Connington’s forearm. “It is time, Griff.” Jon watched as he spoke, realizing no breath streamed forward from the pair before him. The dead needed no air, even in dreams. 

“Time for what, my friend? What can I do? I am a sellsword now. I’ve not stepped foot in Westeros since your deaths.” His red head, now streaked with gray, lowered at his remembered shame.

“It is time for my son to become what he was born to be. A dragon and a wolf, fire and ice, the Prince that was Promised. He is Lightbringer, Griff. He is the living sword in the darkness, forged from blood and sacrifice and great love, just as Azor Ahai forged his mighty weapon thousands of years ago. He must embrace the fire within him now. He must know who he is to become what he was meant to become, and you must tell him.” Rhaegar released his arm and they walked slowly back towards the great black dragon once more, the moonlight hair of the Dragon Queen like a beacon of hope amidst the sea of dead.

Lyanna now addressed him, her words full of portent. “They both must know. They are the weapons that Fate wields for the living, Griff. They will prevail together; there is no other way. For Daenerys is the Princess who was Promised, and inside her womb she carries the babe whose birth will end the Long Night.” Lyanna smiled up at the young Queen. “She must teach my son what it is to have the Blood of the Dragon. She has already lit the fire in his soul. She must now teach him to control the dragon she named for her brother. It is the only way.”

Jon stood before them, overwhelmed. “I would give my life for you both, would that I had. But how am I to do this?”

Rhaegar looked at him, waiting until Jon met his gaze fully. “Our time grows short, Griff. Already your body fights to wake. Hear me – you must seek them in White Harbor. They journey for Winterfell already, together. You must make haste, my friend. The fate of the realms depends upon it.”

Jon knew it was true, he could feel everything becoming hazy; cloudy as his mind sought to leave the cocoon of the dream. He fought wakefulness for the few remaining seconds he could, managing one more oath to the last noble man he’d ever known. “I failed the father. I will not fail the son.”  
\--------------  
He woke panting for air, shooting straight up, his body drenched in sweat. Groaning, he swept his hands through his hair, letting the dream wash over him in the harsh morning light of the Inn. There was much to do, indeed, and he could no longer tarry about. Destiny had captured him at last, and he felt the weight of it settle around him. A purpose, at last. He rose to dress. He had dragons to find.

  
  
Chapter 2: One Final Act of Intrigue  
Summary:

The Golden Company accepts a contract it does not intend to keep, and Jon Connington travels to White Harbor.

  
  
Notes:

So, confession: I hate waiting on chapter updates when I'm a reader, so I'm plopping Chapter 2's ample bottom on the bar. We will change point of view with the next chapter, set for phasers for Smut!

  
  


It had been three months since Jon Connington woke in clammy, sweat soaked sheets. Three months since he’d felt himself shaken from a decades-long stupor, the course of his life utterly upended and now no longer in his control. He’d strolled the streets of Braavos that day, alternatively convincing himself that it was only a dream, that he was being exceedingly foolish, and buzzing with anticipation.

Inside of a week he’d seen Euron Greyjoy darken the doorstep of the building the Golden Company leased in the Free Cities, swaggering in and demanding the services of the entire assemblage, pay guaranteed by no less than the Iron Bank, if you please. 

\--------------------------------

Homeless Harry Strickland stroked his beard thoughtfully while Greyjoy went on and on, that he’d be marrying Cersei Lannister and be King of the Seven Kingdoms soon, and he was more than certain he’d have many paying jobs for such dedicated mercenaries.  
Griff’s hand stilled at the utterance of that insufferable cunt’s name. Cersei Lannister, indeed. He’d slit his own throat in front of the Iron Throne in a heartbeat before he’d lift a sword in support of that treacherous lion. His hands remained motionless, laying flat on the contract he’d been paging through, and his raised his eyes to the pirate before them.

“We accept.” His voice was flat and emotionless, but firm. Harry cut his eyes to Griff, sensing the unspoken request to brook no disagreement.

“The Queen will be glad to hear it, gentleman. And when may I tell her Grace that she can expect you in King’s Landing?” Euron’s voice grated on Jon’s nerves, and he found himself wishing he could gut the fool right there. It would have been easy, and he could have ended the threat then and there, but another idea had taken seed and it would not be put aside.

“Inside of three months. Tell your Queen that I personally guarantee the entire forces the Golden Company can muster will be on her shores and ready to march by then.” Jon glanced over at Harry, who grunted his agreement and grabbed Greyjoy’s hand, shaking firmly once then gesturing for the door dismissively.

“We have much to plan, Greyjoy. Leave us to it.” Harry crossed his arms as Euron dipped his head and mock deference and left. He released a long, drawn out breath then turned to Jon Connington, grinning slyly. “What’re you up to, Griff?”

The redhead smiled slowly as he leaned back in his chair, asking a question instead of answering. “Have you heard ‘round the alleys that Daenerys Targaryen is back in Westeros? With very large dragons? That she *rides*?”

“Mmmmmm, now that you mention it, I believe I have. Tell me, friend, do you suppose that Lannister bitch is desperate enough to believe there’s a single army in any fucking realm that wants to take on dragons? Do you suppose she’s grown foolish enough that she’s forgotten the swarms of Targaryen loyalists who joined *this very company* after that drunken pig of a King took the Iron Throne?” Harry chuckled as he finished, but there was anger laced around it. He stood and sauntered over to the window, standing in the bright morning Braavosi sun. He spoke quietly but clearly. “She’s a fucking monster, Griff. D’you know how many people she killed when she blew that Sept up?” 

Harry whirled around, eyes harder than Jon Connington could ever place them being and he felt it. A feeling snaked up his spine, something anxious but exciting. It felt like something important was happening, some small piece on a larger board than they could comprehend was being positioned now. 

“We knew some of those people. Some were the family of men we employ. They were good people. Honest people.” His voice broke suddenly and he stopped, breathing heavily as he stroked his beard and calmed himself.

Jon tapped his fingers on the contract before him. “I know, Harry.” The former Lord of Griffin’s Roost strode over to a low table, smoothing his palm over a map of Westeros. He traced his hand from King’s Landing, where he’d grown up amongst the palace politicos and learned to ply their craft. It was a lifetime ago but here were those tendrils of destiny wrapping around his wrists and pulling him forward. His eyes followed his fingertip north, where it circled White Harbor before stopping. 

“You are going to take the next few weeks calling on every sword we have. You will make sure every single boot and hoof and fucking shield is on those shores in three months’ time.” Jon silently calculated the routes they’d need, for their paths were about to part for what might be the last time.

“And?” Harry’s voice held more than just question, it held anticipation as he waited for the other shoe to drop. 

Connington’s head turned, his smile thin and faltering. He took a deep breath. “And then you and the Company will infiltrate King’s Landing. You will seed yourselves amongst her forces. You will become a fixture in the South, a presence that will assure the Queen that we are there to bolster and support her forces when she marches for the armies in the North. And then you will destroy her. You will start with her closest guards.” Jon held up a hand, ticking off a finger for each point. “You will take out her generals. You will give the rank and file ample opportunity to enjoin their support to the Stark and Targaryen forces to the North. Those who refuse will be relieved of their duties and their lives.”

Harry walked over to stand right in front of his business partner of the past years, all manner or jest or teasing gone. “I’ve been hearing disturbing reports from the North, Griff. Very disturbing. The sorts of stories children are told to scare them into staying in bed.” 

Jon closed his eyes. He could see their faces in every dark corner, the dead soldiers of the Night King’s army, terrible and cold and innumerable. “As have I. And it is North that I will go, Harry. This is a war between the living and the dead. I used to tease the Crown Prince for believing in this shit. I thought it was his own brand of Targaryen madness. I was wrong.” Jon sighed and laid his head in his hands, remembering the bone chilling cold of his dream and willing the warm sunlight in the room to seep into his skin. “And now I must drag this carcass of mine to his sister to make all of this have been worth something. To make my existence worth something.”

“His sister and the Bastard King of the North, isn’t it?” Harry waited for Jon’s nod in the affirmative before continuing. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, almost hesitant to speak. “I was up in Mole’s Town re-upping supplies and I happened across a group of Wildings who’d been to the Wall with him. They say….”. Here Harry hesitated again before finishing in hushed tones, “they say he’s..a…he’s some kind of God.” His eyes darted across to Jon’s then he looked away, almost embarrassed to repeat what he’d heard, as if he knew how unbelievable it all sounded. “He let Wildings south of the Wall to save them from *something* and his men betrayed him. Fucking Crows killed him for it, stabbed him to death there in Castle Black. And then, one of the Lord of Light’s red robers brought him back. From the dead, Griff.” Harry’s voice was a thready whisper as he finished, a hint of reverence touched with disbelief making Jon’s eyes close tight.

“I’ve heard similar tales. I know not if they are all true, but I do know that the real fight is in the North, and the North is where I will be. Besides, too many of Cersei’s allies in King’s Landing would recognize me. Euron Greyjoy may not know who I am or my history in Westeros, but the minute I set foot in the Red Keep it will be clear we are not there to aid in Cersei’s plots.” Jon Connington slowly rolled the map he’d been examining, planning and itemizing what he’d need, which clipper would be the most reliable and provide the highest rate of speed for the course he was charting.

“Griff.” Jon met Harry’s eyes as he headed for the door, stopping beside the bearded man and clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Harry.” They could both hear the note of finality in the goodbye. “Remove the Lannister threat from this realm once and for all.”

“Good fortune to you as well, friend. Do try not to get burned alive, eh?”

Jon smiled and reached for the door, suddenly anxious to be under way. It’d be at least two months to White Harbor, if he wanted to arrive when he’d thought the Targaryen forces would. He’d pinned his calculations on what Rhaegar told him in a bloody dream, but he was past the point of thinking any of this was crazy. It was time for Destiny to take the helm for a bit.

\-------------------------------

Jon breathed in the salt air as he remembered, his eyes just catching a blur on the horizon that he knew to be White Harbor. He’d dock within a day if the winds were kind. Two months ago he’d set sail, saying goodbye to the rest of the life he’d built when the life of Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost had ended. Lookouts had spotted the Targaryen fleet behind them by a day or so, easing Jon’s nerves and calming his heart. His dream had been right. 

He shook his head, smirking in spite of himself. It appeared his palate for what was good, sound planning and execution had expanded exponentially. This was the easy part done, then, getting here. Now he had to decide how exactly he was supposed to handle this. He knew he’d be able to at least get an audience with the King and Queen as one of the leaders of the famed Golden Company, there to report on treachery against their graces by the Queen in the South.

From there, well, he supposed he would just tell the pair the story. The beautiful, terrible tale of a Dragon who knew nothing of love, a Wolf who would not be tamed, and the joy and tragedy that surrounded them like a heavy Northern cloak. The secrets he must tell were *their* secrets, after all, he’d just been holding them and keeping them safe. 

He tried to clear his head and his heart. He couldn’t help the feeling that this would require all his wits and cleverness and he prayed to the Old Gods and the New he wasn’t too rusty after all these years.

  
  
Chapter 3: The King in the North  
Summary:

Danaerys and the King have one last night before they arrive at White Harbor.

  
  
Notes:

I said there would be smut. You were warned.

****edited to add the standard disclaimer that I am NOT GRRM. I don’t own any of these little monkeys or write about them professionally for money. If I did, Dany’s dragons would probably die spontaneously post-coitus and Jon would be tortured by the Ghost of Rhaegar who would haunt him with cries of “She’s your AUNT Jon wooooooOOOOOoooooo!” every time he took her to the bone zone.

I think they’ve suffered enough :)

  
  


Daenerys closed the door to her state room firmly, sliding her hand down the dark wood and sliding the bolt into place. The room was warm and glowing with flickering fire light, and she turned to lean against the heavy grain as she watched the orange-gold light play across the face of the King in the North. 

He’d already taken a seat by the fire roaring in the grate, loosening the leather armor bound to his chest slowly as he gazed into the flames. She supposed he’d reached the same conclusion she had; this would be their last night on this boat, the last time they could lay entwined together with no consequence, no demands for attention or propriety. Tonight, they would take their time with each other.

She already felt the loss of this, of them, and she fought back the ache in her chest as she approached, filling a goblet of wine for herself before breaking the silence for the first time since they’d entered together. 

“Missendai left some ale for you. Would you like some?” He nodded his dark head at her, those eyes piercing hers and her breath catching in her throat. Sometimes the beauty of him struck her, so hard and sudden it would render her speechless. Her chest was tight with the hunger it inspired in her; the want to keep him forever close to her, just for her. A secret selfish thing she could have and hold and treasure, that no one could take from her. It was lemon trees and red doors and home.

Tonight, she would be that for him. She would show him what she could be, for him, if they lived through these wars of Dead Terrors and Southern Monsters. Tonight, he would be her King.

She let him see the want filling her as she walked back to him, placing her goblet on the low table at his side before sliding between his spread thighs and bending down, handing his drink to him as she knelt. “For you, Your Grace.” 

She watched him as he took the glass from her, slight surprise fading to desire as he slowly took the cup, taking a sip before placing it beside her goblet.

“Your Grace, is it?” The question was low and husky on Jon’s lips as he watched her loose the catch on the gray overcoat she wore, eyes darkening with a swift intake of breath as she shrugged it off. Dany gloried in the fire that lit his eyes as she revealed what she wore beneath, her body barely covered in the white Mereenese silk. While she loved this dress, in this moment she wished he’d rip it from her and take her there on the floor of her stateroom. Her thighs were already slick as he slid his hand over her hip, drawing her closer to him as he sat up slowly from the chair back behind him. His free hand traced the strap across her collar bone, and she knew he could see the rise of her nipples through the thin silk.

“We are in the North, are we not? These are your lands now, your waters we sail through.” She spoke softly into his ear before catching his earlobe between her teeth, worrying it before suckling it gently. 

He brought both hands to her hips now, holding her more firmly as he leaned back to look at her. “They are indeed. But this,” Jon caressed her hips slowly, the friction of his hands and the slick material driving her mad, “this is not a Northern dress.” His voice was almost a growl as his touch slid over her buttocks then slightly down her thigh.

“No, it’s not. It’s from Mereen, Your Grace.” Danaerys kept her voice soft, drawing a forefinger across his lips then down his jaw, bringing her palm to rest against the back of his neck. Raven curls spilled through her fingers. “Do you like it?”

“Aye”, he rasped, “Indeed I do.” Jon slipped his index finger down the side of her breast.

“I’m pleased to hear it. I wore it for you.” She slipped her mouth down his throat, suckling lightly.

He moaned but then drew her back, eyes locking onto hers as he asked lowly “For me? And why is that, Dany?” He grasped her and placed her onto his lap, her outer thigh rubbing the hard length of him. She’d come to love the sound of that name on his tongue.

“Because I am yours, Your Grace.” Violet eyes met dark smoky gray, and she met his gaze openly, willing him to see how thoroughly she was his and he was hers, how overwhelmingly lost she was in him. 

He looked as consumed as she felt, eyes glittering with reflected firelight. “Show me what is mine.” There was an edge of command to it, husky need meeting steel.

Danaerys placed her lips softly against his, deepening the kiss the instant his tongue slipped against the seam of her lips, matching his pace with small nips to his lower lip then soothing with her tongue. He released her lips and she breathed out, “My mouth is yours, Your Grace.”

She slid both her hands behind her neck, releasing the catch below her hairline and rolling her shoulders slightly, watching with him as the straps slithered down to her lap. His heated gaze took in her full, uncovered breasts, dusky pink tips hard and begging for his attention. She turned herself to the side then closer, bringing herself to straddle his thigh as she grasped his neck gently with her palms and arching her left breast towards his mouth. She gave herself over to the pleasures that were his wet lips and gliding tongue before presenting the right for him to take as well.

Her voice was pitched low with want, coming out on a moan, “These are yours, Your Grace. Only yours.” 

Jon growled and grazed his teeth over her nipple, then wrapped his lips around her, suckling firmly and insistently. She groaned and pulled his head closer to her, grinding herself into his thigh in a slow arc. He released her after a long moment with a wet pop, sliding his hands to his own chest to shrug the leathers over his head, leaving him sitting before her in his loose linen shirt and breeches. 

She felt Jon’s hands slide to her buttocks as he pulled her closer, bringing his lips so close to hers she could feel his hot breath dance across mouth. He guided her hips to ride against his upper thigh as whispered against her lips, “What else is mine?”

The Dragon Queen couldn’t stop the cry that escaped her lips as he ground her core against him, giving her the pressure she craved. She rose up and stood between his seated thighs once more, the dress sliding from her body completely and revealing all of her to his hungry, powerful gaze. She could feel the slickness along her thighs and knew he’d be able to see it reflected by firelight. She placed a delicate foot against his outer thigh, revealing herself to the King in the North’s ravenous eyes and grasping his palm once more. She slid his calloused hand up the smooth pale expanse of her thigh, his thumb sliding between the slick thatch of silver curls to the sensitive nub just below.

Jon moaned loudly at how wet she was, giving her a long smooth stroke of his thumb against her sensitive clitoris. “Is this mine, Danaerys Targaryen?”

Her head had rolled back at the contact and she slowly brought her eyes down to stare into his, love roaring through her as she saw the adoration in Jon Snow’s eyes, the devotion, the craving she knew must be seeing in her as well.

“Oh, yes, my King. This belongs to you. I belong to you. Only to you.” She arched back as he rewarded her with two long fingers sliding easily between her drenched folds and into her hot tight heat. The thigh supporting her began to shake and she placed her hands on his shoulders as she slid the knee of her bent leg outwards, opening herself more fully to the slow slide and thrust he began.

He knew her body well, at this point. She’d lost track of the countless hours he’d spent between her thighs, mapping the contours of her with his mouth and his hand. He’d discovered what made her climax quickly and fiercely, leaving her desperate for more. He’d found what made her burn for him, slow and deep, making her orgasm in long, clenching waves that left her exhausted and weak. It seemed to her that it was mere seconds before she was gasping and calling out to him, riding his fingers hard and fast and gripping him with her sheath, muscles rippling around him. 

Dany slowed, panting, and raised herself off his hand. She watched as Jon brought his fingers to his lips and licked the essence her from the digits, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Aye, you’re right. You are mine.” Her womb clenched tight at his words, his voice slightly above a whisper but fierce with a force that thrilled her.

She walked a pace back from him, ready to feel him inside her, claiming her, owning her. She stepped clear of her discarded clothes and he rose, unlacing and shucking the breeches that must have been torturing him and pulling his linen shirt over his head.  
Danaerys took in Jon’s form, her eyes unable to look away from the thick length of him throbbing and needing him inside her, driving deep. Her feet carried her the small steps across the rugs insulating the floor, placing one hand on his chest and sliding her index finger down the length of his manhood. She watched his head tip back involuntarily as he hissed through clenched teeth. She stilled her hand, waiting for his eyes to meet hers.

“Then take me, my King. Make me yours.” 

That was when he finally gave in, she could see him breaking at her whispered words and he picked her up like she weighed nothing. Dany slid her wet folds against his trapped erection as he crossed the brief distance to her bed, letting her upper body fall back onto the furs and he kept her thighs wrapped around his waist.

Dany felt her hips tilted up and out and then he was in her, a powerful thrust that made her cry out helplessly. Her back arched against her will and she gloried in the length and stretch and heat of him. This was what she craved, this moment where he was in her and she surrounded him and there was nothing but their own skins between them. She felt the rounded head of him thrust against that spot in her that he’d uncovered as he’d explored her these past months. He still held her hips off the bed, the angle causing him to create a delicious friction with each stroke inside her.

He drove into her, completely controlling the pace as he wrung a sob from her. “Oh Jon, yes! Please!”

“You are mine, Dany.” He gasped out the words, not pausing the rhythm he’d set between them. 

“I see you. I see who you are beneath your names and titles.” She could feel her chest tighten as her focus warred between his words and the thrusting of his cock, her body tensing as he sped up slightly.

“I see the heart of you, the fire, the kindness.” She was writhing now, unable to look away from him as his words crashed over her, hips pistoning against her. He slid one hand between her curls, flicking the tender bud slippery with her need, sending her soaring over the edge. She felt herself clenching and releasing him, her hips rolling like ocean waves as pleasure washed over her. 

Jon lowered her hips down, finally, coming up on his knees between her legs on the bed, his hands now holding her thighs open as he drove into her with singular purpose now. “I am yours, Dany. For whatever I am worth, for whatever the rest of my existence could mean to you, I am yours.” His voice was so low, so close to her ear that it vibrated against her skin with each word, and she brought her hands up to his hair, releasing it from the band that held those coal-black curls in place. Her fingers sifted through it, and she clutched his face to her neck as he thrust desperately into her now, control about to snap.

“Give yourself to me, Jon.” Her whisper carried to his ears, above the popping of the fire and the panting breaths that filled the air.

It was enough, as she felt his muscles freeze and hold, a hoarse curse escaping and ending in a long moan as he pulsed into her, his seed filling her as he slowed then stopped. He lowered himself to her side, pulling her on her side and to his chest. The pair simply looked at each other as their breathing slowed, Danaerys sliding one slim hand to his cheek.

She spoke first, her voice quiet but clear in the hushed room. “I love you so much it frightens me, Jon Snow.”

Dany could see his eyes soften, overwhelmed as he pushed a breath out and whispered, “Oh Dany…”

He held her to his chest tenderly, cradling her into his shoulder and burying his face in the silver-white hair scattered in waves around her neck. 

His voice broke as he replied, thick with emotion, his hands shaking as they smoothed over her. “I don’t deserve you. I’ve no right to love you as I do, Dany, but I do all the same. I don’t know what I must’ve done to have pleased whatever Gods exist, but that they saw fit to direct my path towards yours is something I couldn’t earn in countless lifetimes.” She shook her head, her eyes filling, hating how little he saw in himself.

He drew back and glanced at her, and she spoke firmly and forcefully. “You deserve everything. You deserve more than I could ever give you. You have given your life for this realm already.” She paused and passed gentle fingertips over the deep scars on his beautiful chest. “You almost gave your life again, for me, for Westeros. And I will give you Westeros in return, Jon.”

She sat up, making sure she commanded his full attention as she slid her hand from his chest to his bearded jaw. Her moonlight hair was loose and free now, the few braids held back at each temple had long since come unfastened. “We may not survive this War, Jon. I have no illusions about that.” She could feel the fear her words inspired in him, fear of losing her, as he tensed and opened his mouth to speak.

Danaerys placed a lone finger over his lips. “But if we do, Jon…if we destroy the Night King,” she swallowed hard, the sense of approaching doom finally worming it’s way back into her awareness, “You are the King I choose. You leave this ship tomorrow as the King in the North. I will not have your fealty anymore. I would have you has my husband, my equal…for I find I can no longer imagine ruling the Seven Kingdoms if I must do it without you.”

Jon’s eyes widened, searching hers as he stroked her cheek. Dany leaned into his touch as she closed her eyes. She nestled her head against his chest as he whispered to her softly, “You honor me, my Queen.”

She turned her cheek to press a kiss above his heart before settling against him again, hoping to doze before losing herself as much as she could within him tonight. “No, Jon. The honor is mine.”

He held her tightly at her quiet reply, then relaxed his arms to cradle her loosely. Tomorrow raced toward her to claim them from this respite, that she knew. But tonight, he was hers, and she was going to make it count.

  
  
Chapter 4: Impossible Things  
Summary:

Tyrion must adjust to a change in plan, and something ails the Queen.

  
  
Notes:

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE AWESOME FEEDBACK! I'm so glad I'm not the only person who was like, "The Golden Company? Bish please" after the Season 7 finale. We will finally bring Griff and our dynamic duo together next chapter, and learn what Wyman Manderly has kept to himself for more than 20 years. Not every Northern House believed the lies of Robert Baratheon.

Also, Davos ships Jonerys. He ships it so hard.

Oh, and Ghost and Rhaegal. Chapter 5. Get ready.

  
  


ROLLING INTO WHITE HARBOR LIKE:

Tyrion Lannister took in the city of White Harbor as they entered the port, surprised at how busy it seemed. The Hand of the Dragon Queen had traveled much of Westeros in the various roles he’d filled for others, but he couldn’t recall ever docking here. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, perhaps something like the cold harsh stone of Winterfell’s walls, but he was pleased to see that this was a sea town proper. Carts lined the streets that led down to the open square facing the piers, the Keep of House Manderly set back slightly from the traffic of the town and surrounded by the sorts of buildings and places he’d seen in so many other harbors. Windows were open to the biting cold air, sails of the few other ships at anchor whipping and cracking in the wind. He could see a large forge and smithy occupying the shoreline to his left, and market shops peddling their fresh fish and crafted goods.

But for the damned snow blanketing nearly everything, he’d almost feel as though he were on holiday.

He glanced at his Queen, currently standing at the bow of the ship beside the King in the North and leaning her head into his side, her arm wrapped around his and a smile on her lips as she took in this new landscape. 

\----------------------------------

He’d been rather exasperated with her this morning. As the sun had risen she’d knocked on the door of his cabin, asking him to join her in their strategy room for one final planning session.

As Tyrion had entered the room, gray daylight just beginning to stream through the portholes set into the wooden wall, his Queen had gestured to a seat by the fire. He filled a goblet of wine as she arched an eyebrow, taking the opposite seat before the fire and waiting for him to sit.

She looked calm, serene, completely at ease as she eyed him and spoke. “Are you prepared, my Lord? For this next adventure together?” 

He rubbed the sleep from his eye with one hand then took a sip and sighed. “Of course, your Grace. But if I might make a request, I do tend to prefer adventures that require less layers of clothing.” He quirked a grin at her and she chuckled. “And Lord Snow? I take it he is ready to inform his people that the North now belongs to you?”

She stopped smiling and rose, walking over to a porthole and peering out at the sky and snow, the shoreline of their intended destination visible and reaching towards them as they approached.  
Danaerys turned her head to him, her eyes thoughtful. “I have learned much about the North from you, my Lord. I have learned the names of their Houses, their sworn banners, something of their ways and customs.” Her fingers trailed along the wall as she walked the length of the room. “I know that the North remembers.” 

The skirts of her heavy white coat swished as she made her way back to where he sat, and she warmed her hands by the fire as she faced it. 

“I know that the last Targaryen to bring dragons to these shores forced their knees to bend. I know that my brother took a Wolf for himself and never returned.” She turned to face Tyrion then. “I told you once that I mean to be different, my Lord. That I will break the wheel that has forced the people in it's path to submit with threat and fear. That starts today.”

Tyrion studied her, trying to ascertain exact what her intentions were. “And what does that entail, my Queen? What is it you intend for the North?”

“I will not hold my aid for ransom. I will bring them my dragons, and my armies, the full force of House Targaryen.” Her eyes held a challenge now, hands smoothing invisible wrinkles down her front a bit nervously, as though she knew he would not like what he would hear next. “I will not do it in exchange for their fealty. I will not force the North to submit to me or else die alone, defending their own lands against what lies beyond the Wall. I am not Aegon the Conqueror. I will give them something my ancestors never have.”

Tyrion grimaced, knowing there might be some merit to what she was proposing but knowing it was politically not in her best interests.

“And what is that? What choice do you present to the North?” He rose, pacing over to the pitcher of wine and bringing it back over to the table between the two, knowing this idea was going to require a few glasses more to process; this was a drastic change in their plans to say the least.

They both looked up as Jon Snow entered with Davos, the Bastard of Winterfell’s eyes warming as they met his Queen’s then meeting Tyrion’s as he gave him a nod. The Imp looked back to Danaerys, realizing she must have invited the pair to join them as she seemed unsurprised by their arrival. “You were saying, your Grace?”

Her violet eyes were full of something he wasn’t sure he could name. “The Southern houses think the Northerners hard. Brutal. Proud. Blunt and unyielding. Perhaps they are.” Her eyes lit on Jon and Davos as they watched her, framed by the dancing light of the fire she stood before and looking for all the world like the Queen of Flames that she was. “But they are no more and no less than what the North has made them. Life here is not the warm, comfortable life other Kingdoms may enjoy, endless summers and warm breezes. Who am I to declare myself their ruler without earning their respect? Their trust? Alliances may be made in the South with clever words and maneuvering, but if I am to win the allegiance of the North I will show them I am worthy of it.”

Davos stood with wide eyes, clearly not expecting what the Dragon Queen was explaining and seeming a bit shellshocked by the implications.

Jon Snow, though. Tyrion huffed in his mind, glad they’d had the decency about a week into their journey to stop pretending there was nothing between them. Jon looked at Danaerys with pride in his eyes. He could approximate a stoic mask when needed, he’d seen the man adopt a brooding serious face for almost every interaction with another. It was his eyes, Tyrion thought. They gave away a depth of emotion that he wasn’t sure he’d seen on the handsome King’s face. It was love that burned into the Silver Queen’s form as she approached Jon and Davos, her thick white coat a stark contrast to the black leathers and furs the King in the North wore.

She stopped in front of Jon Snow but turned her face to Davos. “Jon Snow is the King in the North. He will remain so as we lead our forces to fight the Night King.” Her eyes shifted back to Jon and the two simply gazed at each other. The King nodded his assent at this, agreeing to the proposal.

She’d already made her mind up. Tyrion knew that for as much as he might object to the idea of exacting no promise of support against his sister in return, there was logic to what she was saying. The North did not respect words, and while they might be cowed by her Dragons they would chafe at more orders from more Southern rulers. They would march South with the Dragon Queen, if they made it through what lay ahead, if their King commanded. They would do it gladly, they would kneel to her and depose Cersei if they felt it was their choice…If she’d earned their loyalty not through promise or demands, but through protection.

Danaerys turned to Tyrion then, walking back to her Hand as he rose from his chair. She crouched and took his hands in hers as her eyes demanded to be met.

“Do I have your support in this, Tyrion? Will you trust me in this, my friend?” There was an earnestness there that made him feel shame for his prior aggravation with her. It was easy to pretend that he was always the mastermind behind the ruler, that he was the best suited to make the decisions that were necessary to advance their agenda. He found he was touched that she still wanted his respect, even his approval. She was a Queen. He would not deny her right to decide what course of action was best, not now. Not as they threw themselves willingly into what was sure to be certain death. 

“Always, my Queen.” Tyrion squeezed her hands then looked at Jon, his dark hair held back and head held high. The boy he’d met on the road to the Wall was gone, now. This was a man. A man chosen by his people because he’d earned it with blood and steel. A man who’d been forced to grow up too soon, whose House had suffered more than perhaps any other house in the seven kingdoms. A man who came to Dragonstone to ask Danaerys Stormborn for her aid against an enemy no one believed in, no matter the risk to himself. Yes, he could support this.

“I am yours to command. Both of you.” Danaerys smiled in thanks at his heartfelt words, but then her face shifted as discomfort registered. Her shoulders heaved once as she stood, then all three men watched as she fled the room, hand pressed to her mouth.  
Tyrion looked at Jon in distress, and the look of worry and concern froze him where he stood as the King in the North moved for the door to follow her.

“I’ll see to the Queen, Lord Tyrion. You and Ser Davos prepare for our arrival.” He left quickly, striding out into the hall that led to the exterior of the ship, the door slamming behind him in his wake.

Tyrion and Davos stood looking at the door for a beat, then Davos let out a loud, slow breath. “Well, that’s one thing settled then.” Davos grinned knowingly at Tyrion, who looked confused.

“Best get to planning a wedding once we hit Winterfell, Lord Hand. Your Queen’s going to have a babe, and my King’s not going to be bringing a bastard into the world, that much I can guarantee.” The Onion Knight smiled happily, clapping a merry hand on Tyrion’s shoulder as he moved to leave.

“Close your mouth before you catch flies, Tyrion. You heard the King, we’ve preparations to make.”

Well, he thought, as shock wore off and the implications of what he’d seen settled over him, at least he could stop bothering her about the bloody succession. There was something growing in him, as he hurried his much shorter stride to meet Davos Seaworth above deck. It was foreign and strange, and not a feeling with which he’d been acquainted much in his dreary life. 

It felt a lot like hope. Impossible things were happening now, and he would take good omens wherever he could find them.

\---------------------------

He looked at them now, at the picture they created together. If he tried to calculate the odds, tried to plot out the exact steps each had taken to arrive here, now, it made his head hurt. Maybe it was time to cut back a bit on the wine.

He felt rather than saw Varys approach him, the Master of Whispers watching their approach. They’d be ashore soon, he could see the men on the docks hauling out lengths of rope and gangways to greet them.

“Missendai tells me the Queen fell ill this morning.” Tyrion glanced over at the soft words, Varys sliding his eyes slyly to meet his. “It would seem something ails our Queen. Do you suppose they know?”

Tyrion gazed at the two, light and dark, Danaerys now shifting to wrap her arms around his waist as the King in the North pulled one side of his heavy fur cloak to settle over his shoulders. They would not be able to touch this freely in White Harbor, nor on the journey northward, surrounded by their armies, and he would not begrudge them these last few moments of indulgence.

“They’ve been far too preoccupied with falling in love, I think. But what ails the Queen will reveal itself in due course. Probably best to let them discover this on their own.” Tyrion’s voice was wry and Varys smiled, turning back to the wooden docks they’d be tying to in short order.

“Well, then, let us pray that we remain amongst the living. Something moves now, my Lord. Something powerful and vast and beyond our comprehension.” Tyrion stood still, the portent in the Master of Whisper’s words echoing his own sense of the future. “The Age of Dragons has come again. I suspect we will see many wonders on this journey,” Varys nodded towards the King and Queen, “and this is only the start.”

  
  
Chapter 5: The Dragon and the Wolf  
Summary:

I don't even know on this one, you guys. Just...shit. Just tell me what you think, like it or hate it.

IF you hate it and it's too dialogue-y then perhaps I can entice you back with the promise of smut next chapter?

  
  
Notes:

So. By the time you are done with this chapter you might have a better idea of where this is heading. But here are some things I can assure you of:

No one is running away at the reveal once it occurs because Jon Snow knows this is the end of the fucking world, in all likelihood, and he has a big ass fuck it bucket for shit like that.

There are a few more people both living and dead floating around Westeros that have some secrets to share.

The sex, oh the sex that will be had. 

And look, Jon's gonna have to learn to ride a dragon. It's all gonna be cool. Just believe me. I would never red wedding you guys because I love you and your comments and I have a horrible addiction to them now.

  
  


The Former Lord Jon Connington, of Griffin’s Roost in the Stormlands, found himself at a loss for words. 

Standing before the King and Queen, in the Keep of the Lord of White Harbor, he realized he must tread carefully now. His mouth was dry and he looked up at the two of them, sitting at the head table of Wyman Manderly’s Great Hall. He found himself just wanting to look at them, to burn them into his memory but he realized he must speak before they thought him slow and threw him from the room.

“What is your name, my Lord?” The Queen looked at him curiously, taking the lead as the King of North looked on, stone faced and watchful. Ned Stark had been exceedingly lucky that the people of the North hadn’t seen much of the Targaryens of the South when he’d brought this lad home, because that look of brooding seriousness was one that would have marked him as Rhaegar’s, without a doubt.

The older redhead cleared his throat. “I am Griff, your Grace. I come to seek an audience on behalf of the Golden Company.” 

The Queen’s Hand, the Lannister Imp, seemed surprised as he recognized the name of the best army gold could buy. “The sellswords?”  
Griff nodded his head. “That’s the one.”

The bald, perfumed man to Tyrion’s left rose, and Griff knew he’d been identified. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Varys, Master of Whispers, never forgot a face.  
Varys walked around the table leisurely, in that gliding walk that had always aggravated Griff, and approached him. “That’s not entirely true, now is it? If I’m not mistaken, you once had another name. You once called a Crown Prince brother.”

Most in the hall looked confused, but Griff saw remembrance in Wyman Manderly’s face as well.

“That is true, Varys. Had I known you accompanied the King and Queen I’d have contacted you by raven, but some news is slow to travel to Braavos.” Griff looked back at Daenarys, planting his sword before him on the floor and bending the knee.

“For more than twenty years I have made the sea my home, and fought in the wars of others for gold. But before that, before your father exiled me for failing to defeat the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, I was Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost. I was raised with your brother from the time we were small lads, playing in the halls of the Red Keep together.” His head raised and he met the eyes of the Dragon Queen, who looked surprised and shocked. And perhaps a bit intrigued.

“My partners and I command the largest, most feared army of Sellswords in all the realms. We are men from many places, exiles, thieves, forgotten by our homes and families. But I swear before you today that we are now and will remain ever loyal to House Targaryen. I pledge our swords to your service.” His voice grew stronger as he spoke, the words escaping before he could even think, as if they weren’t even his own.

Danaerys Stormborn rose regally, gesturing for him to rise as she assessed him with new eyes. “I appreciate your fealty, my Lord.”

“Just Griff, your Grace. I stopped being a Lord a long time ago.” The sellsword’s interjection made a smile quirk the Queen’s lips.

“I see. Well then, just Griff, have you brought this famed army to the North to assist us in the Great War?” She stood waiting for a response but he noticed it hadn’t escaped the attention of some of the Northerners present that she’d referred to her forces and the North’s as an allied unit.

“The Golden Company indeed sails for Westeros, your Grace. But they will land on the doorstep of Cersei Lannister, who believes she has purchased their swords to betray you as you fight what gathers beyond the wall.” He still felt his blood run hot with anger at the thought. What sort of craven would strike at their enemies as they fought to save the lives of everyone in the Kingdoms? 

Tyrion Lannister exploded in anger beside the Dragon Queen. “That murderous, treacherous bitch! She'll see every last one of us dead to keep herself on that throne!” Danaerys laid a hand on the Imp’s arm. 

“Peace, Lord Tyrion.” She turned her silver head back to Griff, understanding dawning as she asked, “And what will they do once they arrive, Just Griff?”

“The Golden Company will contain the Lannister forces and protect the people until you give the word, your Graces.” He made sure to include the King, as he wouldn’t insult the North if they were allied together.

Danaerys turned to the raven-crowned King now, and gestured towards a side door set off the corner of the large Hall. “A word, your Grace? I would consult with you before any decisions are made.”

The young ruler looks surprised for a moment but then smiled slightly and stood. He strode forward confidently, extending his elbow for the Queen to take and giving his Lords a quick look and a nod. “Please excuse us, my Lords.”

All eyes were on the pair as they left. Once the door closed, the parties seated began to talk amongst themselves, and Griff saw Lord Manderly rise and beckon him over to join him at his table.

“My Lord?” the sellsword asked as he approached, wondering at the invitation. He hadn’t seen Wyman since that night long ago, the night Lyanna Stark had left the North, and he was unsure what he might be walking into.

“Don’t look at me like that, Rooster, sit down.” Wyman sighed and pointed to a seat beside his own, and Griff seated himself as a pitcher of ale was placed in front of him.

Griff groaned at the long forgotten nickname. “Seven Hells, I didn’t know there was anyone left who remembered that. I could’ve strangled Jamie Lannister for that. He used to tell every bloody squire he came across at the tourneys that my house words were ‘I Sit on My Eggs’. Took me years to shake that.” 

Manderly filled his cup, pouring some for Griff and sliding the drink to the sellsword. “Here we are, again. Seems every time we meet it’s between Dragons and Wolves.”

Griff nodded. “It must be your natural magnetism, Lord Manderly.” The heavyset Lord chuckled and shook his head. The greying, bearded man who’d been seated to the King’s side leaned towards them, having been close enough to catch at least part of their conversation judging by the interest in his eyes.

“Beg pardon, it’s impolite I know, but I couldn’t help but hear you mention Dragons and Wolves. What d’you mean, exactly?” The scattered conversations skittered to a halt, and the small group in the room all turned to look at Griff and Lord Manderly. Griff eyed this aged white haired man, who’d shared in a small but an important part, of the secrets that had consumed his life forever ago.

“Perhaps it’s time we tell the truth, Lord Manderly.” Wyman’s mouth opened, whether to agree or disagree Griff wasn’t sure, but his reply was cut off by a firm, feminine voice behind them. 

“Tell the truth about what, my Lords?” 

Griff looked over his shoulder, confirming what he already knew. The King and Queen had returned. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. If the Queen’s lips looked a bit bruised, and the King’s hair a bit mussed, cloaks a bit askance…he certainly wasn’t going to say anything. 

Lord Wyman Manderly rose then, all prior political discussions forgotten. He walked to where the couple stood, looking into the Queen’s eyes for a long moment and letting out a deep breath, seeming to decide on a course of action.

“Do you mean to force the North to bend the knee? Will you tear our independence from us yet again, like so many Southerners before you? Will you burn our keeps with your dragons and murder our men if we refuse?” Griff could hear the emotion in the Lord’s voice as he addressed Danaerys. 

He’d expected perhaps that she would be offended, or aggravated at the man’s blunt words. Instead, her face softened and she placed one hand on Lord Manderly’s forearm, staring directly into his eyes as she replied as directly as she had been questioned.

“I have not come to conquer the North, Lord Manderly. I have come to save the North.” The northern King stepped forward then, placing his hands on the Queen’s shoulders and adding his agreement.

“The Queen speaks true, my Lord.” Manderly met his King’s eyes and his tensed shoulders relaxed. 

“Then, I would beg you both, before anymore words are spoken about Lannisters and paid armies and what waits for our men in the North…let an old man unburden his conscience. I’ll not have this on my soul if I die in this war.” Manderly sat once more and Jon Snow and Danaerys seated themselves as well, every eye on the room on the Lord of White Harbor. 

”Rhaegar Targaryen did not kidnap Lyanna Stark.” Wyman stared into his ale as a few surprised gasps and replies filled the hall. “That was a lie Robert Baratheon tried to sell us all, to poison the North against the Targaryens because he couldn’t have Lyanna. I don’t even think Rickard believed that load of horseshit at first; anyone who’d met Lyanna would’ve known that no one made that girl do anything against her will.” Lord Manderly sighed and gazed at the young King with sad eyes as his continued. “But Brandon Stark believed it, Robert got him worked into a right state sure enough, and Rickard’s oldest boy was too hotheaded to listen to reason.”

It was Tyrion’s voice that broke the silence that had fallen since Manderly had finished speaking. “Are you certain, my Lord?”

“Let me tell you something about Lyanna Stark, Lannister.” The portly Lord rose then, pacing as he spoke, almost like a man possessed. Griff began to wonder just how far into his cups Wyman was at this point, but he wouldn’t stop the truth from being told. At least this truth.

“She had a gift with horses. She could ride like the godsdamned wind runnin’ down a mountain meadow, and there was no one in the North that could catch her once she was on a mount.” Lord Manderly smiled, lost in remembrance. “But she could tame them, too. Word got around after a bit, that young Lady Stark, a girl of 11, could take a froth-mouthed mountain mare and have it eating out of her hand by dinner time.”

Griff found himself listening with rapt attention along with the rest of the room. Of all the stories Lyanna had told him on that ship to Dorne, this tale had not been one of them.

“My father was Lord Manderly then, and a ship came in with a load of horses to be run down to the Vale. Amongst them was a great black stallion, wild and bucking and full of rage. Created all sorts of trouble for the stable hands, broke a man’s leg before my father got the idea to ask Rickard Stark to let little Lyanna try.” Wyman chuckled and looked at the King. “Your grandfather was dead against it, but she pleaded and begged, and so he gave in.”

“Off we went to the stables then, Rickard and Lyanna, my father and I, a few curious bannermen.” Another sip, and Manderly wiped his mouth off and set the cup down for good. “There were already smallfolk gathered ‘round the paddock and here was this great black beast bucking and kicking like a demon. Lyanna ran ahead as soon as she saw the thing, and before anyone could stop her she stepped right into corral with it, brave as you like.” He looked at Danaerys now, who had leaned forward on one hand.

”Was she injured?” The Queen looked as deeply interested as Griff was, but then Griff knew things that the Queen did not about what might have happened next.

”Oh, no. The minute she set foot into that beast’s lair he stopped kicking. He started walking in circles and whinnying, but he kicked no more, and she sat down at the edge of the paddock, watching him but that was all. She didn’t try to touch him, or command him. She just sat there and closed her eyes, waiting. None of us could believe it, this stallion hadn’t calmed since it came off that fucking boat but calm he was now.” Lord Manderly glanced Griff’s way, his voice tinged with awe as he spoke directly to the sellsword now. “That horse walked over to her finally, slow but steady, and lowered his head into her hands. She finally opened her eyes then and smiled up at that great black horse as it towered over her, stroking it like it was a bloody dog. It was like magic, Rooster. I’d never seen anything like it. None of us had.” Now he chortled, his face reddening as he said through his laughter, “Then Lyanna, that little scrap of a girl, looks over to the stablehand by the gate and yells out to him ‘Are you going to get him some bloody oats or not?’” He finally lost his battle with laughter, the rest of the room joining in at the mental picture he’d created.

“There was something special about her, that much I know. She stayed down at that paddock ‘til the sun set, grooming that great oaf of a horse and getting him used to being handled. A few of my father’s guards stayed with her ‘til she was done, the rest of us having finished our day elsewhere.” Lord Manderly’s expression grew more serious now. “Next thing you know there’s a terrible ruckus being raised outside, all of us rushing to see what had happened. I don’t know if any of us expected to see a drunkard lying on his back in the street, little Lyanna Stark’s boot on his throat and her dagger below his eye.” Manderly’s voice was still grave, but Griff couldn’t help the pride that swelled in his chest at the story. Lyanna was fierce and more when he’d first seen her, but she’d been 15 then and a woman grown, not a little scrappy twig of a girl as Wyman described her.  
“I’d reached them first, Lyanna and my father’s guards and this drunken oaf of a sailor from some distant port. She spoke sure and true to that damn fool, telling him that she was a Stark of Winterfell and these were her father’s lands, and those who act without honor in the North would soon lose their heads.” Wyman hesitated now, but pushed on, voice now sad. “I asked the guards what had happened and they said that sailor’d accosted some poor serving girl outside the Inn, and none of them were fast enough to catch Lyanna Stark before she’d launched herself at him, pulling that dagger out of her boot like she’d been trained to do it.” Lord Manderly lapsed into silence, looking around the room now at his audience, spellbound and hanging on his every word. He heaved a great sigh. “Rickard was sore wroth with her, pulling her off the fool she’d tackled and dragging her back into the keep. My father had the idiot locked up ‘til he was sober, telling him not to come back to the shores else he’d see to it he lost his head like Lyanna’d promised. I think he was proud of the girl, my father was.” He rubbed one fat hand across his eyes, his voice heavy. “She didn’t come back to White Harbor after that.”

He sniffed once, clearing his throat and trying very hard to control his emotions, and Griff knew full well that the hardest part of the tale was coming next, for he would soon enter the story with Rhaegar, before things all went to hell.

“One night, years later, Lyanna Stark came tearing into town with a bag of her things and a scroll for me, from Old Nan up in Winterfell.” Griff saw Jon Snow’s eyebrows raise, and assumed that at least Old Nan had lived long enough to see another pack of wolves be raised.

“Old Nan?” The lad’s voice held a note of disbelief but Manderly merely nodded.

“Her daughter’d made midwife down here and gotten herself married. They had a little place down by the docks, and Lyanna made for it as soon as that scroll touched my hand. I had no idea what in the Seven Hells was happening, as she didn’t even say a word, but I speak true when I tell you that was the first time I’d ever seen that girl with fear in her eyes.” Griff could remember that night clearly, making port as quietly as they could in the dead of night, plain white sails hung on the masts so they couldn’t be recognized, leaving Rhaegar pacing the cabin while Griff snuck down the pier to find Myra’s place like they’d been ordered. Old Nan had sent another message, to Dragonstone, and he remembered the shake in Rhaegar’s hands as he’d read it, his face haunted as he told Griff and Elia what it said.

Connington shook himself back to the present as Wyman continued, clearly wanting to get this tale finished by the uncomfortable look he now wore. “She’d written straightaway that if I had the stones to call myself the next Lord of White Harbor, then I’d better do as she said and help that girl hide at her daughter Myra’s place, that she’d sent for help and it wouldn’t be for long, but she’d be damned by the others themselves before she saw Rickard Stark force that girl to marry Robert Baratheon. Whore’s tit, I believe she called him. Said Lyarra Stark’s ghost would haunt her all her days if she watched that girl be broken. All I could think about was that day with that bloody black horse, and how she’d seemed like she was made of magic, and that Old Nan was right. Robert Baratheon’d already gotten a few bastards in the Storm Lands, and didn’t seem intent on stopping anytime soon. I knew he’d either break her spirit or she’d kill him, and so I did as Old Nan asked. Not three days later, Griff here shows up at the docks with that ginger hair covered, sneaking over to Myra’s and leaving with Lady Stark, skulking in the shadows like a pair of bandits.”

Griff snorted at that. “We made piss-poor ones, because my hood slipped off and over you came, my Lord.”

“That hair is hard to miss. I got there right before you made for the gangway, and I saw Lyanna’s eyes, and how they begged me not to stop her. I told her to be careful, told you to take care of her, Rooster, then I walked away. And I never saw her alive again.” Griff watched a tear finally escape down Wyman’s face at that last utterance, and looked around the room, seeing that he wasn’t the only one affected by the tale. The King in the North appeared to have given up on propriety and he clasped the Dragon Queen’s hand in his as she sniffed once, delicately, and looked at Griff.

“Where did you go?” Her voice was hushed but that damned Hall had fallen deadly silent so it was easy for Griff to catch her words.

“Dorne.” Griff got up from his chair, bowing slightly to the King and Queen and giving Wyman Manderly a brotherly pat on the back. “But that’s a long tale for another day, I’m afraid. I’ve been cooped up on a ship for far too long and I imagine you lot have been as well. I beg your leave, if you don’t mind, for I’m not as young as I used to be and these old legs will start screaming if I don’t stretch them out.”

“Of course. The King and I will discuss what we have decided regarding your army of sellswords and Cersei Lannister and will seek you out then.” Her voice was kind, perhaps she could see that he was at his limit for remembering the dead. Griff met the young King’s eyes then, and wished he hadn’t, because it was like having Lyanna right there in the room then and it was overwhelming.

Griff left the room with haste, seeking out somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts for a bit before he was again amongst Dragons and Direwolves.

\---------------------------------

They found him on the roof, these living echoes of the ghosts of his past, and it was just the two of them. He heard them step onto the stones and looked up, seeing them drop their hands as they attempted to hide their obvious affection for each other.

His eyes tracked them but he did not rise, remaining where he was and turning his attention back to the very large dragons who’d been nesting on the hill above the keep. As he had learned watching them, very large dragons could breathe very large amounts of fire, and they’d made short work of melting the hill’s blanket of snow before circling around like great cats and going to sleep.

“Your Graces.”

Griff was surprised to see the King in the North remove that heavy fur cloak, so very Stark in it’s design that he wondered if they issued them ready made to the children born at Winterfell. But then, Jon Snow had not been born at Winterfell.

He motioned for the Queen to sit then took a seat beside her, the relatively small area it covered requiring them to sit closer than propriety would dictate. He hid a grin and looked back at the massive beasts.

They sat there for a few moments, watching the Queen’s dragons as they rested, and the King’s voice slid through the quiet, rough and so very Northern.

“It’s true, isn’t it? About my Aunt, I mean?”

Griff looked at him full on, his blue eyes meeting those eyes of flint. “Yes, your Grace. Rhaegar wasn’t perfect, there are none amongst us who are, but he’d never have dishonored Lyanna Stark. Oh, I heard the tales, that’s true, abduction and rape. Robert Baratheon wanted her and Robert Baratheon could not have her. And so somehow he heard who Lyanna had left with that night, that it had been me, and it was no secret back then that if you found me Rhaegar would not be far behind.”

Danaerys looked at him in disbelief. “And so this whole war…the deaths of my brother, my father, my mother, Rhaegar’s children, the King’s uncle and grandfather…all those lives were lost because of Robert Baratheon’s scorned ego?”

Griff smiled grimly, nodding. “I assure you it was just as ridiculous then, but so many things unfolded so quickly that we were all lost in the riptide of it, just trying to stay alive by the end.” Oh, Griff was surely undone now, the abject sadness on both their faces almost too much for him to take.

“Consider this, then, Queen Danaerys Stormborn. If Robert Baratheon hadn’t told that lie, if Brandon Stark hadn’t gone drunk and raving to the Red Keep, if Rickard hadn’t followed to try to keep that fool boy’s head on his body, if the Mad King hadn’t killed them, if your Queen Mother hadn’t fled to save the lives of her young son and the babe she carried…you’d never have them.” He pointed over to the Queen’s beasts, magnificent and magical.

“That’s true, Just Griff.” He had to smirk at that, this young Queen had a bit of cheek to her. “But when is the sacrifice too great?”

“True greatness always requires great sacrifice. Often the greatest among us are those who have suffered the most. How can a ruler be great if they have never known pain and sacrifice and suffering?” He looked at the pair who each seemed to be considering his words. “No King or Queen can be just if they have never known what it is to suffer, because they will never know the heart of their people.” 

Griff looked at the King in the North who was nodding slowly in agreement. He knew this lad was no stranger to a life of suffering, if half the tales he’d heard by now were true. 

A long, plaintive wail broke them all out of their brief stupor as their heads swung toward the source of the noise, and together they watched as a massive white Direwolf broke through the tree line and into the clearing where the Queen’s dragons rested, intermittent puffs of smoke trickling out of their large scaly snouts.

The grim-faced lad now changed completely as a huge smile broke over his face. The Queen watched and followed his eyes, smiling now as well and asking, “Oh, Jon, is that him? That must be him. He is brave indeed to tread amongst Dragons.”

Jon Snow laughed then, leaning back and closing his eyes as the Queen watched. “He’ll never hear me from here, I’ll have to try to call him this way.” He didn’t open his eyes as he spoke, but his words didn’t confuse Danaerys as they should have unless she shared something similar with her dragons. They should have confused Griff as well, but he knew the secret to Lyanna’s way with horses, that she had been a warg, a skinchanger, and she’d lean back just like her son the King did now and slip into their skin as easily a slipping on a shirt. 

The King opened his eyes back up and they saw the great white head of Ghost swing towards them. But just as his master breathed out an “Oh, good, he heard me”, they saw him walk slowly around the sleeping dragons in a circuit, his nose to the ground and his tongue flashing out here and there to drink from the puddles the snow melt had created.

“Stubborn thing.” Jon Snow began to stand but as he did the Queen gasped. 

“Jon,” she whispered reverently, “look.”

And so they did, all three of them. That great massive wolf, not so great against the great sleeping giants before him nosed closer and closer to the green dragon. That great scaly head slowly raised as the dragon sensed the wolf’s slow approach, golden eyes blinking open as he watched the Direwolf close the distance between them.

Griff held his breath as beast met beast, and the Direwolf Ghost pressed his nose into the snout of that green dragon, and for a moment they just stared at each other, red eyes meeting gold, and breathed each other in.

“Your direwolf is either very brave or very stupid, your Grace.” Griff knew the King heard his whispered words but the way the corner of his mouth ticked up.

“I’ve found with Ghost that he can be both remarkably easily.”

The Dragon Queen was unamused, perhaps by the assumption that her dragon might harm the King’s direwolf. She shot them both a stern look and checked her eyes back to the scene before them. “Stop that, both of you. They’re making friends.”

Griff had to chuckle as he looked upon them once more, but sure enough she was right. For then that great Direwolf yipped and swung his tail rapidly, and Griff was stunned to see the green dragon edge his wing away from his great body, creating enough space for the wolf to curl up in a space that was surely much warmer than the cold snow surrounding them.

“He’s just smart enough to find the warmest spot to nap, you see?” There was a satisfied edge to her voice, as though she’d known that would happen all along and Jon and Griff were being exceedingly foolish.

“Alright then, your Grace, if he will not come to us, then we will go to him.” The King rose, pulling the Queen gently to her feet and the pair grasping at each other a bit longer than they probably realized, but Griff schooled his face into a disinterested mask, pretending not to see. He’d played this game a time or two before and he would play along. He wouldn’t begrudge them these little moments, Gods knew they were running short on time.

“Your Graces?” They halted at his words, having forgotten why they’d told him they’d seek him out in the first place. The both listened as the King grabbed his heavy fur cloak and slung it around his neck once more. “Regarding my Company, if it is acceptable, I’d like to leave them in place and play the mummer’s farce of support for awhile, at least until you have reached the King’s home. Probably for the best to save the battle in the South for a time you aren’t preparing to fight one in the North. My men will contain the threat, and can spend that time on much nobler pursuits. Sabotaging equipment, exploiting divisions amongst her men and turning her army against itself…standard tactics, you understand.”  
The Queen’s eyes narrowed and she smiled viciously, the Dragon in her awake at last to Griff’s eyes. “That’s a splendid plan indeed. And if the situation changes, and she makes to move on us while we are occupied with the Night King….”, she trailed off and looked at the King in the North.

“Kill her.” The King finished the Queen’s sentence, earning a nod from Danaerys as the pair walked away.

“I am yours to command.” Griff turned his head as they left, leaning back on his hands. He’d need to leave soon himself and inquire around town for a room for the night. The men loading the carts headed for Winterfell had informed him that they would depart the next morning, so Griff would need to secure a place to lay his head, but for now he just wanted to sit and watch dragons and wolves a bit longer.

  
  
Chapter 6: Dragons Do Not Die  
Summary:

A journey and a dream for Jon Snow. And some nekkid time thrown in for good measure

  
  
Notes:

Say a prayer to the Old Gods and the New that my teenagers do not crack the code of my intentionally boring file name for this story!

Chapter 7 will be up by tonight, as I had this one ready to go last night but zonked out putting the toddler who also resides here to bed. I hope you enjoy this one and worry not, Chapter 7 is a reveal of several sorts and I'm excited to see what you think :)

  
  


It had been a week of endless riding, stopping briefly to doze where they could, but Jon was loathe to slow their progress unless they had to. The closer they got to Winterfell, the greater his desire to hasten their journey, to see the siblings he’d feared dead not so long ago.

He turned to his left, where Danaerys rode beside him, giving her a smile when she looked at him, road tired but still dangerously beautiful. Here was his other reason for wanting to get this part of their journey over and done, because once he had her in his home he was going to do terrible wonderful things to her, things he’d dreamed of every night since he’d arrived to beg for her aid at Dragonstone, things he had no business wishing for then. But now, as she reached across the small distance between their horses and grabbed his hand her with own, squeezing gently as her look became less loving and more heated, now he felt no shame in picturing her splayed out in the grass before the Heart Tree in the Godswood, naked as her nameday and calling his name as he devoured her in the same space his father used to sharpen Ice.

Her look became positively devious now, and Jon was sure he must have given away something of his thoughts as she cleared her throat. “Tell me, King in the North, will we reach our arranged meeting point with the armies on the Kingsroad today?”

Jon considered, half a mind still caught in imagining how he would take her on that head table in the Great Hall of Winterfell, how he would peel off those layers and make her scream and he wouldn’t fucking care who might happen by…

“Jon?” She looked amused and slightly flushed and he wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking. Suddenly he was ready to be off this damned horse because these past few days had taught him that the almost constant state of want he found himself in around her was no friend in a saddle.

“If we keep at our current pace we should reach your men by late afternoon, perhaps this evening.” They’d planned before they left Dragonstone to rendezvous with the larger force of Daenerys’s armies south of Winterfell and then journey as one massive presence. At the very least, he supposed, it ought to impress those doubting Lords of his who thought he was a fool to seek the Mother of Dragons for assistance.

“I am pleased to hear it. If you don’t mind, then, I’d like to make a proper camp tonight. I find myself craving a proper bed…”, she flicked her eyes up to him then, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted, “and a proper sleep. Aren’t you craving a proper sleep, Jon Snow?”

All Jon could do was nod because now a new imagining roared to life in his mind, and he was picturing taking her in a canvas tent, hard and slow, while she moaned and gasped and tightened around him so sweetly.

“It’s settled then. Ser Davos?” She didn’t turn back, didn’t tear that heated gaze from his, but he heard his Hand respond, knowing laughter in his voice.

“Aye, Your Grace, I’ll make sure you and the King have accommodations at the ready…There’s no doubt much benefit to a good night’s rest after this much time on the road.” Jon shot Davos an exasperated look but couldn’t find it in him to truly be bothered. It was much less embarrassing if he didn’t have to spell things out, and he was grateful that his Hand was such a cheerful sort, as his humor had made the Queen laugh more than once as they rode for Winterfell.

Jon watched as she turned to Davos, the arch of her neck graceful as she trilled to him, “Ser Davos, you are a treasure, and do not let this brooding mess of furs tell you any differently.” He couldn’t help but laugh along with them, but it was the curve of her throat that kept him distracted, and he could taste the skin there if he thought about it hard enough, and suddenly her eyes were back on his as he straightened.

She leaned closer to him, guiding her mare dangerously close to his to whisper to him, “If you keep looking at me like that, Your Grace, I’ll have you right here on this trail and I won’t care who sees it.”

Jon knew she was well aware of what she was doing to him, and she had loved to play a game of her own invention on that ship he sometimes wished they’d never left, saying all manner of things to get him to blush or to shock him with her bluntness or suggestiveness. Perhaps she wanted to see how that felt, then.

“Well then, *Your Grace*, I suggest you stop looking at me like you want to be taken, or I’ll have you up against one of these trees. I’ll let you pick, of course. I am a proper gentleman.” His whisper made it to her ear and he knew the minute she’d processed what he was saying, her eyes growing wide and her face turning a lovely shade of pink.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are an evil, terrible man, Jon Snow. I never imagined you’d be such a tease.” 

Jon found he was greatly enjoying this game, and he could see why it had thrilled her so over the past few months, teasing him to see how much it would take before one of them finally broke. He held a hand over his heart and gave her a sad stare. “You wound me, Dany. I would never tease about something like that.” He made a show of glancing around at the wooded acreage along each side of the Kingsroad. “Do you see one that looks promising?”

That was it for her, and he thrilled that he’d won this time, as she could no longer keep up her mask of indignation. “You are going to pay for that, Jon Snow. That I can promise you.”

Jon flashed a grin at her, enjoying the intake of breath as he leaned closer once more, his voice deep and husky. “Oh, I do hope so.”

\------------------------

Davos had scouted ahead and found a decent clearing for them to make camp, and Jon was sorely glad of it, feeling grimy and scaly and tired after so many days without much rest. He left Danaerys to see to the setting up of things while he and a few of the other men found armloads of wood to haul back. He finally stopped when Tyrion waved him over, looking puzzled.

“What are you doing?” Jon was confused by the question, and Tyrion must have read it on his face as he continued, “lugging wood and supplies up to camp?”

Now Jon was even more confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

That seemed to frustrate Tyrion even more, the Queen’s hand pacing over to the bonfire that had been constructed in the center of a loose ring of tents. Jon saw a large structure of canvas and wood set back a bit from the rest, and realized that must be Dany’s.

“Perhaps because you are a King? You could get injured, there could be an accident, I’ve seen it happen before you know.” Jon was a little touched that Tyrion seemed so concerned for his well-being, but he wouldn’t stop helping his men just because the Dwarf of Casterly Rock thought it was unbecoming a King.

“A King I may be, Tyrion, but I never claimed to be very good at it.” Jon grimaced and Tyrion gave a chuckle.

“She’s been good for you, My Queen has. I wouldn’t have expected that somber boy I met years back to be here making japes instead of brooding, but here we are.” Tyrion took a seat on one of the logs that had been rolled before the large fire, and motioned for Jon to sit down as well. “If she lost you it would destroy her.”

Ah. Now Jon thought he understood a bit better where Tyrion’s disapproval came from. “I know it, Tyrion.” Jon sighed and stared into the flames. “I wouldn’t want to live in this world anymore if she were not in it.”

“Then we must make sure you take care, Jon Snow, King in the North. She needs you. You are an extremely important person, you understand. To all of us.” Jon looked back a Tyrion, a bit surprised, but he sat up a little straighter at the statement.

The Lannister Imp scoffed. “But don’t go getting a swelled head about it.”

Jon laughed and Davos strode up, looking as pleased as he could recall seeing him in recent days. “We must be talking about the King in the North.” Davos just chuckled to himself as Jon rolled his eyes, and sat near Tyrion before the fire.

“Davos,” Jon asked in the dying daylight, cold fogging his breath, “don’t you ever get tired of your jests?”

Davos feigned offense. “Of course not, Your Grace. Because I am a treasure.” Tyrion let out a loud hearty laugh at that, and Jon couldn’t help but shake his head and snicker. 

Jon knew they all thought him dour and brooding, but Tyrion had the rights of it in one sense. Danaerys was good for him, the younger version of himself would have probably stalked off to go pout at a fire on his own by now, but he found he welcomed the humor now. 

He nodded to Griff as the older man took at a seat by the fire, wondering how he’d been faring. He didn’t say much unless asked, usually reading some book from a leather satchel he’d brought whenever they stopped for a brief respite on the road.

Davos walked over to Jon now, his mouth next to Jon’s ear as he intoned, “The Queen has requested your presence in her tent, lad. And she appeared in no mood to wait.”

Jon shot up, blood beginning to pump a bit more rapidly. Part of the reason he’d busied himself was to give her time to settle, but he knew how she must be feeling. He felt pulled taut as a bow string himself. He’d escaped down to a nearby stream to clean himself up a bit, washing off the road dirt for as long as he could stand the icy water, but he’d asked Davos to make sure the Queen had a hot bath arranged in her tent, unwilling to force her to endure the frigid temperatures he had.

There rose a host of knowing chuckles and laughs from the men around the campfire as Jon turned to make for her tent. He didn’t even spare a glance back as Tyrion called out, “Do try to keep it down, Your Grace, some of us would like to get some sleep tonight!”

Jon just smiled, turning to face them as he continued walking, backing towards her tent and calling out, “Well, lads, I can make no promises, but thankfully you’ll have your jokes to keep you warm tonight!” The chorus of groans made him laugh and he was still of good humor as he parted the canvas flaps, entering the Queen’s tent and pulling them closed behind him.

He was smiling still as he turned his eyes to the interior of the structure, taking in the makeshift bed layered in furs, a few spare tables and chairs arranged in the somewhat tight space, gaze travelling over to the large metal tub that held a very naked and very wet Danaerys Stormborn.

“Hello, Jon Snow.” Her voice was pitched low and sweet, an innocent look on her face as she leaned back against the metal rimmed edge, arms draped along the sides. She was watching him take her all in, he knew she liked to do that, liked to see the hunger in him grow as she displayed herself for him. He found he had no issue with that, doing nothing to disguise the naked want and need in his eyes as he dragged them slowly up her body, drinking in the curves beneath the warm bath water and the beautiful breasts that broke the surface, her nipples already hardened and tight in the cold night air.

“Ser Davos said you required my presence.” His voice was rough to his own ears, low and dangerous and his palms burned to touch her skin, to pull her, wet and slippery, out of that tub and touch every single inch of her, skin that had been denied to him for days that felt like forever. He was starving for her, and he had given up on trying to puzzle out why, for though he’d spent every night on that ship discovering the glorious shape of her it did nothing to abate the hunger in his heart, in his soul to have her.

“Hmmmm.” She hummed low in her throat, trailing the fingertips of one hand through the water. “Ser Davos was right. I very much require your presence. What a dear man he is, so helpful. You are lucky to have such a thoughtful Hand, Jon Snow.” 

“I’m not sure I like speaking of Ser Davos so highly with my Queen while she is naked.” His voice grew rougher still and he reached his hands on either side of the tub, leaning in towards her and starting as she flicked her hand at him, water droplets landing on his face and leathers. She giggled and leaned her head back, purple irises watching him with mirth and hunger.

“How quickly can you shed those clothes, Jon Snow? For you sound jealous, and your Queen would show you how wrong you are.” At her throaty words, Jon’s hands left the tub and flew into action, staring into her eyes as he removed his leathers and tunic and breeches in short order, as bare to her as she was to him.

There was an intensity in their gaze now, tension high and thick as she whispered, “Jon, my love?”

He whispered in return, drawing back to the tub she reclined in and drawing a fingertip across her cheek, “Yes, Dany?”

Danaerys shivered, her eyes aflame and devouring him. “Get me out of this damned tub and take me on those furs. If I do not feel your skin against mine I think I shall die.”

Jon couldn’t have stopped the groan that issued from between his lips as he did as ordered, as helpless as she was to the pull of desperate want that consumed them both. He grasped her waist firmly, pulling her up and out and into his arms, her legs wrapping themselves around him. They both gasped as her wet skin pressed against his, finally allowed the contact and she arched against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest wantonly and she brought her frantic lips to his.

Jon moaned against her lips, sliding his tongue between them to tangle wetly with hers, each of them fighting for dominance. His blood thundered in his ears, his cock hard and hot and rubbing against the core of her, slipping against her slick folds and making her moan in return.

He laid her down on the haphazardly made then, extricating himself from her damp body and immediately she turned, her hands sliding out in front of her to grab at the furs beneath her. He watched, panting, as she slid that gorgeous ass into the air, pressing her upper body into the warm furs and turning her head to peer at him wickedly. “I need you inside me, Jon. Like this.”

Jon needed no further invitation, he could see how wet and swollen she was, how ready she was to be taken by him, and he was well past the point of control now. Rough palms grabbed her hips and he buried himself in her in one long thrust, her wail meeting his guttural moan as he stilled, savoring the feel of her. This was what he’d missed, that sensation of being completely inside her, being a part of her, the walls of her sheath so tight and burning and welcoming, holding him as if to embrace him. He withdrew and drove into her again, and again, and she turned her face fully into the bedding, trying to quiet her gasps and moans. He could feel her begin to drive her hips back against him, increasing the force everytime their hips met, flesh slapping and he felt as thought he was truly on fire. One hand slid low and around her hip, seeking that engorged hot bud above where his flesh met hers, trapping it between his index and middle fingers and pressing down on either side.

Her back bent in a glorious curve, head coming back to wail his name even louder as he circled his fingers, driving her higher and higher as he took her with fervor, his skin sparking and tingling as he increased the pace, chasing release for them both. His fingers circled faster, his thrusts now frantic and then she was coming around him, the grip and release of her orgasm making him see lights behind eyes that had slammed shut, and the only truth he knew at that moment was that nothing had ever felt this good and right to him, no woman could ever have been more perfectly fashioned, and he could hold back his own release no more.

Jon felt himself pulse with release, seed spilling into her as she fluttered around him still, the aftershocks of her release still making her tremble around him, and he groaned her name, thrusting slowly a few more times then withdrawing from her, the whimper she released at the loss of him making him press a kiss to the back of her neck. He reached down and grabbed the furs that had slipped to the ground, heaping them atop their bodies as he burrowed in next to her. Dany sighed, breathing slowing, and brought her head to lay on his bicep as he lay beside her. 

Jon was content to simply lay there and look into her eyes, skin against skin and finally at peace, but there was something that had been eating at him since the thought had first crossed his mind and no time was better than now to ask her, he reckoned.

“Marry me at Winterfell, Dany.” It wasn’t a question, not really, but even to his own ears it sounded like a request, his voice sounding a little unsure even though she’d already told him she wanted him as her husband.

Her only reaction was to smile and bring her hand to his cheek, fingers coming through his short beard then tracing the shape of his lips. “Certainly. I would marry you here, in these woods, with only the trees to witness. But we should marry at your home, my love, with your family beside you.”

His heart, which had resumed it’s normal pattern, began to race again. He wasn’t sure why her love for him still surprised him, perhaps it was the manner of his birth, his station in life. Perhaps it was because he’d always felt less than, growing up, not deserving of the things that others would feel entitled to. He certainly didn’t feel entitled to her love, but he wasn’t fool enough to think he could convince her otherwise and he wouldn’t deny himself something she freely gave him, deserving or not.

Jon brought his lips to hers, kissing her gently, reverently. As he drew back he could see tears filling her eyes, threatening to spill over, and he was distressed at the sight. “Dany, what is it? What ails you?”

She took a deep breath and turned, laying on her back with her head pillowed on his outstretched arm. She grasped his left hand, biting her lip as she placed his hand on the skin just below her breasts, still damp from her bath and their exertions. She slid his hand lower, eyes boring into his, bringing his palm to rest open and flat against the skin of her abdomen.

And then he felt it. It was barely there, just a slight bump, hardly noticeable, but it was there. His heart galloped and she gave a teary smile, shaking her head as he began to speak.

“Not yet, Jon. I don’t want to speak of this yet, for I fear my heart cannot take the hope of it, the dream I thought was dead but you believed in. It is to soon and I will not have us set our hearts on something that may not yet be.” He could do nothing but nod once in assent, overwhelmed by something he’d never felt before, fear and hope and a deep, terrible love, a fierce thing with teeth and claws that would tear the realms apart for what he held in his arms.

He would respect what she wished and do as she asked, for only she had borne the pain of the death of this dream and he had not, but he brought his lips to follow the trail she’d taken his hand, pressing soft kisses down her velvet skin until he kissed that small bump, the impossible thing they’d created together, just the two of them, and his eyes filled as well.

He brought himself up to lay beside her once more, bringing her into his arms as he brought his lips to her ears. “You are every dream I never hoped to wish for, Dany. And I will make you my wife, and my Queen, and I will never let you go. Never.”

He could feel her shaking slightly, but her kiss was hard and fierce and sure as she brought her lips to his. She turned in his arms, her back melding to his front, and he curled himself around her. “Good.” Her voice was low but strong and she brought his hand down to her abdomen once more. He lay there, cradling the world in his arms, and drifted off to sleep, a peace in his heart and a smile on his lips.

And Jon dreamed of dragons.

\-------------------

He looked around, unsure of where he was, but these cliffs were familiar to him. This was Dragonstone. He was alone, and he looked out at the surf from the beach he stood upon, breathing in the salt in the air and just existing.

Jon looked around and saw the mouth of the cave. That was the cave he’d finally found the dragonglass in, the only hope his people stood against fighting the dead men who marched for them. He walked to it now, his movements slowed by the sand that tugged at his boots.

He entered and traveled through these well known walls, noticing after a bit of walking that the paths were already let. Someone must already be here. He did not call out, though, because there was something holy about this place, holy and ancient and to raise his voice felt disrespectful to what once had been here.

Jon walked and walked forever, it felt, and finally came to a wide open space he’d never encountered before, not in all the mining he’d done in his months at Dragonstone. He gazed in awe at the cavernous roof above him, glittering black with obsidian. There were torches here, as well, but even then it felt as though the light did not touch the depths here, so great and enormous it felt. There, in the center of the room, curled around each other in rest, were two dragons. No, Jon corrected himself, these were Dany’s dragons, this was Drogon and Rhaegal. He did not approach them, for even though Drogon had allowed his touch his mother had been present and he did not presume to force himself on them.

_The Winter King is wise._

He heard a voice, then, but not with his ears. It rang through his soul, rattling around his head, and he looked around for the source. His eyes settled on the dragons once more and Rhaegal’s head had risen, his eyes meeting Jon’s, gold and gray taking each other in.

_Dragons are not men. It is wise to be fearful of us, for we are not beasts of bone and flesh. We are the dream of Old Valyria made real, we are fire and blood and magic. But you need not fear us, for we know the truth of you._

Jon spoke aloud, confusion and dread lingering at the edges of his mind.

“Where are we? What truth is it you speak of?”

_We are in the dreaming, Winter King. We are in the home of our souls, home of the blood that makes us and sings to us. This island was our home, long ago, when a King of our blood brought us here before the Doom took our brothers. For a dragon does not die as men do; our souls return to the dreaming to sleep, until we are called upon again. Long have we slept since we served our blood last, for they were no longer conquerors and turned us against each other and we returned to them no more._

Jon wasn’t sure how to take all this, or why he was even here, why Dany’s dragons would tell him such things.

_Come closer, Winter King, approach me so I may look upon you._

Jon rose slowly, hesitating, for this dragon he had not met as he had Drogon and he wasn’t sure what Rhaegal might do. Still, as he had when Drogon had charged him there on the cliffs above, he approached, with respect.

He raised a hand to touch the great green dragon, but stilled his motion as that voice echoed again in his head.

_Not yet, Jon Snow. For a King you may be but you have power that others do not. You slip the skin in dreams, I have seen it in your beast, and you are not yet ready to see as I see._

“My beast…you mean Ghost? My direwolf?”

_A fitting name, Ghost. For it was his soul that carried yours when you no longer walked the realms of men. You lived in him until your body was reborn anew and a part of you lingers in him now. This is the power that sings in the blood of the Kings of Winter, a magic of mountain and ice and wild things borne of this land, and old power that I have not seen before._

“I would imagine the North feels much different than Essos, where you hatched.” There was a humor in this sibilant voice now, and Jon felt embarrassed as the dragon spoke again.

_I have lived many lifetimes. I have been hatched and flown and died and been born again into a new skin to a new dragon lord. Such is the way of dragons. Death is not the end for souls such as ours. It merely brings about another beginning. But it has always been my destiny to bear the weight of Kings, for long ago, in another life, it was I who carried Aegon the Conqueror over these lands, bringing them to their knees. I have known many names, but for that mighty King I was Balerion, the Black Dread, and realms trembled before our might._

“And now?” Jon felt himself tremble, for there was something there at the edges of his mind, a knowledge that had been chasing him his whole life but had not yet caught him in the weight of it all, but it was approaching now and there was no hope of outrunning it.

Rhaegal drew himself up then, regal and proud in the massive cave, torchlight glittering as he stared down at Jon.

_And now I will bear another King. A mighty King indeed, a King who bears the flame of Old Valyria and the magic of these lands, of the First Men who came long before we dragons did. It was those men who fought what lurks beyond the wall, men of a magic very old and deep indeed. This King will not be a Conqueror, but together will cause these lands to tremble to their very foundations, for he is this realm’s greatest and last hope. We have come again, answered the call of our mother, because this war is the last War. We will bring War again, upon our enemies, the enemies of all who live. We will bring a War of Fire and Blood, once more, and perhaps that will save us all._

Jon was shaking, now, because there was something he knew but could not know, and it was overwhelming him. His legs gave out and he sat, brought low before this dragon, speechless. He felt a warmth then and looked up, his eyes meeting Rhaegal’s, named for a Dragon who had once loved a Wolf.

_Do you know who you are?_

\-----------------

Jon sat up gasping, gulping air in but it would not fill his chest. It had seemed so real, but surreal all the same, and he willed his heart to calm and his lungs to relax. It was still night, for no light edged through the canvas walls, and he sat in one of the wooden chairs, his elbows on his knees and his head in his heads.

He raised his tired head to look at Danaerys, silver hair gleaming in the light from the lanterns that still burned in the cabin, and found himself weary down to his bones. He would not keep himself awake and puzzling over dreams while she lay there so perfectly before him, and he drug himself back to the bed, sighing as he lay next to her and pressing a soft kiss to her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling her scent, and slept once more, dreamless and peaceful in the woods beside the Kingsroad.

  
  
Chapter 7: Ghosts of Harrenhal  
Summary:

SO. Here it is, at long last. Chapter 7, the mother of all Chapters for me, the R + L = J reveal. And as I went to post this last night, I reread it, and I hated it. I tried to tell it a certain way in certain scenes and it just didn't work for me, it didn't give as much of the depth or detail that I wanted some of these scenes to have. So, I rewrote those scenes. And now they are really long. I'm excited but nervous for this one, because within this chapter is the seed that made me start thinking about this story over a year ago, before we had beautiful boatsex. Tell me what you think, your feedback makes me a much faster writer!

**edited to fix some booboos and plot bits that didn’t quite fit, thanks to some thoughtful comments! I’m hoping to have Chapter 8 complete sometime this evening, tomorrow in the event that my children and husband aren’t too demanding about, like, food ‘n stuff!

  
  
End Notes:

What's the verdict? I wanted there to be some reason, some fucking way that Rhaegar could have annulled his marriage and married Lyanna and not have been a total dick for doing it. Then I realized, wtf, they got married and shacked up in DORNE? Elia's HOME? WHAT A BUNCH OF ASSHOLES R + L THE ONLY GOOD THING YOU DID WAS MAKE A HOT SON!. But then I thought on it more, and thought hmmmmmm, maybe, just maybe what I've described above is plausible. Because if D&D make me hate Rhaegar for suddenly for some unknown reason deciding to be a real douche after years of being "noble Rhaegar" and being like "fuck those kids time to make another", well...I'm not making threats but holy shit will that be a rough week for the people who have to live with me.

  
  


The morning was cold, and clear, the snows thankfully holding off as though wishing to see them to their destination as much as Jon did.

He crawled quietly out of bed, immediately regretting the loss of Danaerys’s warmth as he slid on his breeches and tunic and toed on his boots. His skin felt tight and itchy, burning inside though the air was frigid without. Not wanting to wake his Queen, he slipped through the canvas folds, intending to see to the fire and find something for them to break their fast.

He was brought up short by the sight of the fire already blazing, Griff’s red hair streaked with white flashing on the other side of the flames. Jon felt his heart skip a bit, remembering his dream and walking slowly to the fire, hands outstretched as he warmed them. Griff looked up as he approached, smiling briefly before returning his eyes to the flames.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I take it you managed some rest last night, but you look as though you need a bit more.” 

Jon realized he must look as tired as he felt, and ran a now warm palm over his face as he took a seat by the fire. “Restless dreams, friend.”

Griff looked up sharply at him, blue eyes flashing with something Jon did not know, then the man threw the stick he’d been prodding the fire with into the blaze. It crackled as it was consumed with it’s brethren, and the man walked over to where Jon sat, his leather satchel around his shoulder as he gestured to the spot beside him.

“May I?”

Jon nodded, not able to find his voice quite yet. There was something about this man that caused a queer feeling inside him, trepidation mixed with fear and a dash of fate mixed in. They sat in silence for more than a few moments, and Jon felt a question tickling up his throat, down his tongue, and it was out before he could stop it. That question that had haunted him, teased him, devastated him all his life, that question that no one would answer for him, not even his father. He tried to wrestle it back but it hung in the air between the two men and now that it was out it refused to be tucked back away into his heart.

“Do you know who my mother is?” Jon regretted asking as soon as he said it, cursing himself for speaking aloud that silly, foolish hope he’d had since boyhood, that somewhere someone knew the truth of her.

Griff turned his body to face Jon then, his face grave and his eyes pained. After a beat, he spoke, but it was a question instead of the answer Jon sought.

“What do you know of Harrenhal? Of the tourney there, long ago, when Rhaegar lay a crown of blue winter roses on the lap of Lyanna Stark? The day all the smiles died?” His voice was tinged with sadness but wistful as he looked at Jon.

The King in the North wracked his brain, he didn’t know much more than what Griff had already voiced, but he replied anyway. “In the North, it is said that tourney is when Rhaegar first met Lyanna and decided he would take her, for he was instantly smitten with her.”

Griff drew in a breath and, to Jon’s amazement and confusion, began to laugh. Big, throaty guffaws that were in stark contrast to his countenance from moments before. “Seven Hells, is that what they say?” His mirth was now contained, but his voice was tinged with humor as he continued. “Oh, Rhaegar was not smitten with her then, nor she with him. But he gave her that crown of roses, true, after he bested Barristan on the tilts.” He leaned close. “But let me share a secret with you, King Jon, a secret no one alive knows but me, that I now tell you. It wasn’t Rhaegar’s idea to crown Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty that day. It was the Princess Elia’s.”

Jon was flabbergasted. All he’d heard, when the tale was rarely told, was of the outrage of it all, the anger of Robert Baratheon in honor of his betrothed, for the Prince was married and to crown anyone other that his wife was most shameful.

He managed to breathe out a reply. “But why?”

Griff’s eyes were knowing now. “Because she wanted to honor Lyanna Stark, for an act of courage and bravery, for seeking justice for a wrong. For being of noble heart, without fear of the risk.” Jon was still flummoxed, so Griff continued. “You see, Dornish women are not like the other women in Westeros. They are wild and fierce and fight just like their men. They care much less for stations and titles and all the pomposity of nobility. She was a Princess, true, but she had the heart of her people. I imagine that the time she’d spent in King’s Landing had shown her very little of bravery or justice or selflessness, just greedy highborns grasping and clawing for power.”

“What did Lyanna do, then, to inspire a Dornish Princess so?” Jon was thoroughly intrigued now, the question he’d posed taking up less space in his head as he waited for Griff’s response. The sellsword’s mouth opened, then closed as he stood and bowed to Danaerys, who’d walked up to join them. Jon turned his head and held out a hand, and she sat close to him in that gray morning light.

“Have you heard the tale of the Mystery Knight? The Knight of the Laughing Tree?” Jon shook his head and glanced at Dany, who appeared puzzled and still a bit sleepy.

“Well, then, let me be the one to tell the tale, for it is a good one."

\----------------

Griff watched as the smallfolk around them cheered, as this unlikely knighted unseated a second rider, another victory for this mysterious little fellow in mismatched armor and a shield that bore a laughing Weirwood tree.

Oh yes, this Knight had become an quick favorite of the crowd, with much chatter and speculation as to who it might be. He looked over at Rhaegar, seated on a dias set below his father and mother, the Princess Elia seated at his side. Elia seemed enraptured, which was rare, as she seldom attended much of anything. She took sick frequently, even more so after little Aegon’s birth, and Rhaegar’d told him a month prior that she could not bear him any more heirs.

Rhaegar, however, looked increasingly worried as Aerys began to rage next to him, demanding to know who this bloody imposter was that thought to ride without showing his true arms. He could see Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella attempting to calm him, and Varys, that sneaky spider of a man, striding over on what seemed a cloud to aid them.

“Griff look!” He looked over to Elia as the Knights below lined up again, at opposite ends, readying their lances. The winner of this round would win this set of lists for the day, and would receive the bounty of the armor and horses of the squires they’d defeated. “I think he can do it! He is small but he rides flawlessly. Perhaps it is one of my fellow countrymen, coming to make his fortune at Harrenhal?”

“He may be, but sadly there’s not much fortune in the armor of a squire.”

Elia scoffed and turned back, clapping excitedly as the riders prepared, then rode hard for each other. If he’d blinked he’d have missed the feint of the Mystery Knight but he saw it, the squire opposing him not quite so lucky. The lance of the Mystery Knight smashed brutally into the unlucky rider, unhorsing him with a painful shot between his shoulder and torso, and he heard the poor sod cry out before crashing to the ground.

The crowds watching went positively wild, screaming and cheering and waving ribbons in the breeze, ecstatic that their new hero had won the day. The small knight circled the list once then came to a stop before the King’s Box, Aerys’ teeth gnashing in silent rage and hair wild and unkempt.

Griff strode over, ready to play his part in this little drama. “Do you accept your boon Squire?” Griff gestured to the pile of armor and shields the losing squires had been forced to remove, their horses being held and tethered next to the battered metal.

The Knight addressed him and the royals beside him, voicing booming loud and exaggerated as the crowd had shushed itself, hanging on his every word. “I require no boon, my Lord, but that these squires be disciplined and taught honor, for they have shamed their Houses this day.”

Griff checked his head to look at Rhaeger, who nodded and went back to speaking low to his father, Varys now fanning the King in what didn’t look to be a very soothing manner.

“Granted!” The Knight bowed to Griff then rode off, tearing through the side alley and out of view. The crowd now cheered and Aerys erupted, no longer able to hold the madness in.

“Assassin! It’s an assassin sent to kill me and you are no son of mine unless you bring the criminal forth to face judgment!” 

Rhaegar looked sadly at his father, bowed to his mother, then walked over to Griff and Elia. “Come then, Griff, let us go track down this mystery assassin and send the lad back to his parents, before my father tries to take his head.” Griff nodded to Elia, shaking his head and smirking at the frail princess, and taking his leave, following Rhaegar down the steps and out into the clearing before them.

“Where’d you suppose the poor sod got off to?” Griff looked at the area around them, a wooded copse lying over the hill, crisscrossing dirt paths with a minor trading village in the neighboring valley.

“Let’s try the river. If I was going to toss my armor that’s where I’d do it.” Rhaegar’s voice was wry and they set off on the winding path that led down to the banks. A few of the Kingsguard approached on horseback, and Rhaegar directed them in the areas he’d already dismissed as possibilities, up the hill and down the valley.

As they left Rhaegar lengthened his stride, stepping onto the trail that wound through some sparse wooden areas before hitting the large riverbank below. Griff quickened his pace and soon they were surrounded by trees, the green canopy above them letting shafts of light filter through.

Rhaegar held up his hand suddenly. “Griff. Do you hear that?” His voice was whisperquiet and he motioned to an area thick with trees and some wild undergrowth. And Griff did, for a frantic “Lya! Hurry! We’ve got to get back to our tents before they see we’ve gone! If Father catches you he’s going to murder you!”

Griff looked at Rhaegar, mystified but intrigued as they crept closer, eyes widening at each other as a distinctly feminine voice said, much less quietly but still softly, “Well then help me, Benjen, you bloody fool! This is why knights have squires, this is fucking impossible to get off alone! Try this strap.” Rhaegar stood slowly, drawing himself up to full height from the slight crouch he’d been in, and gestured to Griff to follow as he put his hand on the hilt of his sword casually and walked around the undergrowth to see the mystery knight and her fellow assassin for himself.

Griff didn’t know if he’d had to struggle so hard to hold back a laugh, as the dark haired lad immediately fell to the ground at the sight of them, pleading in a desperate voice, “Oh please, your Grace, don’t kill us! She HAD to do it, please, don’t chop off our heads!” He looked at the girl then, struck but the fierceness in her eyes as she sighed out, “Oh, bloody perfect. It’s the fucking Prince.” She looked down at her brother with sisterly disgust and grabbing his arm. “Oh, Benjen, do get up. If someone’s going to chop off your head you shouldn’t get them a clean shot, you fool.”

Griff raised his eyebrows at Rhaegar, who’d shot him an amused glance. It was sound advice. He could see Rhaegar bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing as he finally spoke. “You won’t be losing your head today, young Lord. But tell me, why did your sister have to disguise herself as a squire and put herself at great risk for harm? And then, more impressively, defeating them? And demanding they be disciplined? Hmmm?” 

Rhaegar addressed Benjen but looked at Lyanna, and though she was still half-strapped with armor Griff could see she was a beauty. Not in the way of the ladies at Kings Landing, painted and powdered and arranged and simpering, no this was the beauty of wild things, with a face that needed no ornamentation at all. She had steely gray eyes and wild, black hair escaping the braids along her temples, obviously having mussed it inside the helmet she’d worn, and she was lithe and lean, but still of womanly figure. At least, he supposed, what was still covered by the jousting armor she still wore matched what was already exposed.

“They dishonored one of our bannermen last night, your Grace. Howland, he’s from the Neck you see, and he’s a crannongman and they’re not all that big, and he was arriving last night and those arses set upon him all at once! They started beating him and kicking him, ‘til Lya rode out and set her horse on then, then hit them about the heads with a wooden tourney sword to chase them off.” The lad’s words came out in a rush then he laughed, and now Rhaegar let his own laughter loose. Griff joined in and even the girl grudgingly smirked, ruffling the boy’s hair with her hand as he continued, “They were screaming like little girls!”

Rhaegar chuckled but addressed the girl this time, his eyes meeting her and holding. “And why must you ride for this Crannongman, my Lady? Can he not ride for himself, for his own honor?”

The girl’s gray eyes narrowed now, her voice clipped and harsh. “No, he cannot. The crannongmen are skilled hunters and trackers, but there is no call for horses in the marshland of the Neck. I’d think the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms would know that.”

Rhaegar chuffed slightly at this, but Griff found a certain brand of amusement in the somber, proper Rhaegar getting set off kilter by this wild thing in her brother’s tunic and second-hand armor.

“He prayed last night, by the shore nearest the Isle of Faces, that the Old Gods would give him some manner of regaining his honor.” Her voice turned slightly sad now, and she reached for a strap on the armplate she wore. “I knew Howland couldn’t ride, and my brothers were riding in their own lists. In the North, we serve the Old Gods, your Grace, and I knew then what I must do. I am a Stark of Winterfell and we do the Old Gods’ will. So Benjen begged armor all last night and I snuck into the armory in the Keep and stole a shield.” She reached behind her, handing Rhaegar the shield bearing the Laughing Weirwood tree, and of course that’s what this Stark girl would paint, this servant of the Old Gods.

Rhaegar’s face grew serious now, having realized what had already struck Griff, that this was no minor lady, this was the daughter of the Warden of the North. This was a Stark of Winterfell, and in the Seven Kingdoms there were not many who risked upsetting the Wolves. “I understand, my Lady, and I thank you for setting such an injustice to rights, but perhaps we might help you so you can be on your way? Your family will surely seek you soon.” The Stark girl bit her lip then nodded, anxiety growing on her face as Griff and Rhaegar set to work and got the rest of the pieces free of her. As he pulled the last straps from her leg, Griff saw a brief flash in her boot and realized she had a dagger strapped to her leg. Seven Hells, who was this girl.

“May I ask your name, my Lady?” Griff looked up as he gathered loose armor in his arms, waiting for Rhaegar to hoist an armful to toss in the river. Little Benjen had already grabbed the helm and was whooping as he ran down the shore.

“Lyanna. Stark.” Griff nodded, that’s what he’d thought but the confirmation was nice to have.

“Aren’t you betrothed to Robert Baratheon, my Lady? I suppose he doesn’t know that his intended dresses in armor and defeats squires in her spare time?” He was surprised to see her grit her teeth in anger, biting out through clenched teeth, “What Robert Baratheon knows can be fit in the spare space between a whore’s tits, my Lord. I don’t give two shits what that idiot thinks.” She seemed to remember herself then, and some semblance of propriety, turning a bit bashfully to Rhaegar who was desperately biting the inside of his cheek again. “Begging your pardon, your Grace. Excuse my crassness, we are not so fine-mannered in the North.”

Rhaegar smirked and cut his eyes to Griff’s. It was the bloody truth, wasn’t it? “Not at all, my Lady, such honesty is refreshing. And my cousin seems to be having a contest with only himself to see how many bastards one man can sire.”

Lyanna Stark gave an angry nod then wheeled on Rhaegar, jabbing a finger into his chest at her words. “Well you can give your bloody cousin a message for me. I’ll jump off the Wall at Castle Black before I’ll let him between my legs, and I will *never* be his wife!”

He could see Rhaegar swallow slightly, before nodding and backing away from this wild girl. “I’ll be sure to pass the message along. Now on your way, both of you, lest you get caught out here by someone other than us!”

Griff stood by Rhaegar as they watched the pair run off, the Starks disappearing through the trees. Rhaegar turned to him, a look of amused amazement on his face. “Seven Bloody Hells.”

And back they’d gone, lugging that shield off to take to Aerys, the rest of the armor washing away down the river and removing all remaining evidence that the mystery knight had existed at all.

Elia had been in Rhaegar’s tent when they were done, practically bouncing on her heels, demanding to know what had happened. And as Griff recounted the story, with brief interjection or correction, Elia began to laugh harder than Griff had ever seen this Dornishwoman laugh. She howled and clutched her stomach and had to lie down after a bit, tears streaming down her face as her shoulders shook in mirth. It was contagious and soon they all joined in, it all seeming to crazy to be true.

Elia let out a big sigh as she caught her breath, sitting up and swinging her legs back to the ground. “Oh, what a perfectly marvelous girl. How she would love Dorne! We do not force our daughters to sit and sew and lunch. We are free to chose our paths. Except for me, of course.” She stood and walked to Rhaegar, patting his hand with a smile. “But it is not such a trial to have a good friend as my husband in a political marriage such as ours. Not all women are so lucky.”

Elia rubbed her hands together, eyes scheming as she paced, then turned to face the pair.

“Do you ride tomorrow? In the final rounds?” Rhaegar looked at Elia, confused and wary.

“Yes…” he said slowly. “What are you up to?”

“Do not trouble yourself, husband, nothing too realmshattering. But you must win.” She smiled deviously at them both, and Griff couldn’t see any use in refusing her, for she so rarely seemed so lively.

“I’ll certainly try…but then what? To what end?” 

Elia simply kept smiling, her soft accented voice pitched as she said, “You leave the rest to me.”

She looked over at Griff then. “What are those flowers grown only in Winterfell, my Lord? Sweet smelling, a lovely blue?”

Griff smiled. “Winter Roses. Blue Winter Roses.”

\-----------------------

Griff rubbed his cheek thoughtfully and Jon absorbed the story, holding Dany’s hand tight, his chest full of pride in this girl he was just learning about, the girl his father had rarely spoken of, and now he thought he understood why. Ned Stark had loved this fierce sister, and his heart must surely have been broken to have lost her, for she seemed rare and precious as Griff spoke of her.

Jon looked around, realizing they’d drawn a bit of a crowd, and Tyrion passed a wine skin to Dany then sat back, considering. “I’m confused, Griff. In White Harbor you mentioned rescuing Lyanna Stark in the middle of the night from her impending marriage and heading for Dorne. I can’t imagine the Princess would have welcomed Rhaegar taking Lyanna Stark there, even if she found her to be admirable. After that tourney the rumors began to circulate that Rhaegar was taken with the girl. How would it have looked, sailing with the Stark girl to the very lands the Prince’s wife hailed from? Wouldn’t that have just injured their reputations further?”

Jon agreed, even if the crowning of Lyanna Stark had been a completely unromantic affair, hatched by the Prince’s wife, it surely would have been inappropriate to take the very girl he’d allegedly insulted his wife with to the land of his wife’s people.

Griff nodded slowly. “Indeed, it would have. But you see, that was Elia’s idea as well.”

\--------------------------

Griff walked up the steps to Rhaegar’s chambers on Dragonstone, hurrying as he heard the raised voices of his Prince and the Princess. It was odd, they rarely argued, Elia of frail constitution and rarely having the energy for the type of row he could hear through the door. He knocked, hesitantly, and opened it at Rhaegar’s curt “Enter!”

Elia looked at him, desperately, coming over to cleave to his arm. “Griff, thank the Seven. You must make him see reason!”

Rhaegar slammed his hands down on the wooden desk before him, scrolls fluttering down, his voice angry in a way Griff wasn’t used to. “I will not, Elia! I will not make my children bastards!”

Griff’s eyes widened, blue clashing with amethyst as he addressed his friend. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

But it was Elia who walked over, calmer now, and took Griff’s hand. “The King, Griff. His madness grows by the day.” She squeezed his palm now, tears gathering in her eyes. “We are all his enemies, you see, and there will be nothing to stop him from killing me, killing the children, the next time my husband departs. He dares not act while Rhaegar is at Dragonstone, but make no mistake Griff, he will act. I have heard whispers, that the King suspects I have turned his son against him, that I will force Rhaegar to kill his father to place my own children on the throne. That I am a spy for Dorne, that I will take that throne for my Father, because the Dornish do not kneel to the Targaryens.”

She wiped her eyes, sadly, and looked to Rhaegar. “I know you would not hear it, would not consider what I have proposed, but it is the only way, your Grace. If he makes a move against me, against our children, you must know that my father will bring the full force of Dorne against him. Against you.” She sighed and approached the Prince now, who looked less angry and more resigned now, but still had a mulish look on his face that reminded Griff of when they were boys and he’d tease Rhaegar for having his nose buried in a book all hours of the day.

“And this is what you would have me do? Annul our marriage, make our children no longer legitimate? How can you ask this of me?” Rhaegar’s voice was melancholy and low.

“The High Septon in Dorne has already agreed, dear husband. I will be safe in my father’s house, and Dorne will continue to be an ally of the Targaryen throne when your father is no longer King. But while he reigns, while he rages and burns and strikes out at anyone and everyone…the danger is too great. My father will pledge our armies to you once you take the throne, for you will have saved his daughter and his grandchildren from the ire of the Mad King. And as for the children – the Dornish do not care about station, you know that. There are sands on every corner of every street, and it makes not a bit of difference.” She rubbed her palm against Rhaegar’s forearm, and he finally looked up at her, acquiescent but begrudgingly so.

“Fine. This I will do because you ask it of me, and you have so rarely asked for anything that you could have. But when my father rules no more, I will legitimize my children, you understand. I must have heirs.” Rhaegar’s voice had become commanding now, and Elia nodded, relief washing over her features.

“The dragon must have three heads, Rhaegar. You have told me those words many times, and perhaps it may still yet be. I have already written to the Septon in Sunspear and my father. You must go to Dorne, seek out Septon Maynard. He will make the arrangements and you will sign them, and in doing so you will protect your children so they may live to rule.”

Rhaegar just nodded, silently, considering, and no one spoke for a beat. 

Griff looked down at his hand, scroll still clenched in his fist, his reason for seeking out Rhaegar forgotten momentarily. He strode to the desk, tossing the scroll, still sealed in front of the Prince of Dragonstone.

“A raven came. From Winterfell.” Rhaegar snatched it up, breaking the wax and unrolling it, his eyes growing haunted and hands shaking as he read. He lay it down on the desk and put his head on his hand, looking as if he could no longer support it’s weight without help. He saw Elia make to reach for it, stopping to silently ask Rhaegar’s permission, but he simply nodded. Her eyes widened as she read it, mouth set in a firm line and eyes steely with determination.

“Bring her to Dorne, Rhaegar. Take her to the house of my father that she may shelter, for that girl is of brave and noble heart, and I will not see myself saved from the monsters of this land while leaving her to their whims. She does not deserve such a fate.” Now Griff was truly puzzled, as he hadn’t sneaked a look at the contents, assuming it more of the same of the ravens Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark had sent each other, with the girl telling Rhaegar all manner of old lore from the Northlands, stories of dead men of ice riding great spiders of frost, and the magic beings that dwelt in the forests and mountains and bogs.

Rhaeger breathed in, surprised at his wife’s statement. “Are you sure?”

Elia nodded decisively, moving towards the door to take her leave. “I will send my father a raven at once. You must make for Dorne, but first you must travel to White Harbor. Our Mystery Knight must be rescued.” Realization washed over Griff; something must have happened in the North, something dire, for planning to abscond with the daughter of the Warden of the North was not a plot one stepped into unless the need was great.

Elia left and Rhaegar stood, walking over to Griff and grabbing his shoulder in a fierce grip. There was fire in his eyes, for Elia or Lyanna he was not sure, but a dragon was rising inside of him and it was glorious to behold.

“We leave in the morn, Griff, at first light. And we must not be recognized.”

Griff nodded, taking his leave now and hurrying down the stairs. There was much to make ready and time was running short.

\----------------------

This was almost too much, Jon thought. All the lies and misunderstandings and so many lives lost, and for what? Because Elia Martell feared for her life? Because Rhaegar tried to save his children? Because Lyanna couldn’t bear to be forced to marry Robert Baratheon? To hear the truth, all these years after the events had unfolded, well, it was almost too much to bear. 

He looked around, Danaerys sparing him a sweet private look and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, not sure if she was supporting him or he was supporting her but no longer caring what anyone now assembled thought of it. And an audience had certainly assembled, for while they’d listened the last of the men leading the train of dragonglass and supplies and men had arrived, bringing with them Jorah and Gendry, who’d ridden with the Dothraki and Unsullied marching down the Kingsroad to meet them. Missendai and Varys, who’d ridden via carriage, had arrived as well, and now they gathered, silently, eagerly listening to this tragic tale unfold.

Griff looked up and around, shaking his head a bit, perhaps clearing out the ghosts, Jon thought. He saw the redhead spot Jorah and give a respectful nod. “Ser Jorah. It’s been a long time since you sailed with the Golden Company.”

Jorah nodded in return, his eyes darting over to where Dany and Jon clung to each other and lowering sadly before replying, “Indeed it has, but here we both are, to serve the Crown once more.”

“Griff?” Dany was a bit hesitant and Jon could feel the tense set of her shoulders. Did she have that same feeling growing in the pit of her stomach? For as this story unfurled like a flower, there was something blossoming within him. It was the same feeling he’d had in his dream with Rhaegal, that they were drawing close to something he’d never known but always known, an answer to his question looming and staring him down and now racing towards him like a runaway stallion, and he would not be able to get out of the way.

“What happened in Dorne?” 

Griff slumped, his posture resigned now and he raised sorrowful eyes to Jon and Dany.

“Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia, just as she’d begged of him. He gave me the letters that would be required as proof, to see to it that Aerys knew Elia and the children were a threat no more and could be conducted back to her home. And when that ink was barely dry, Rhaegar marched himself over to where Lyanna had been waiting, and cupped her cheek, then kissed her with no mistaking his intent. For they’d fallen in love on that ship to Dorne, spending long nights talking of prophecy and Night Kings and family and duty, and by the end they’d be mooning at each other when they thought no one was looking.” Now a single tear slid down Griff’s cheek. “And the next day, that same Septon married them in the eyes of the Seven, by the bank of a river there in Sunspear, under a great tree by the shore.”

Jon managed to choke out a question. “They were married?” None of this could be true. It couldn’t. There had to be some confusion here because the gaping chasm between the truth he’d believed growing up, that his father’s sister had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, and the truth the man Griff proffered, that Lyanna had gone willingly, that they had fallen in love, that they had gotten married…the world was losing focus for him.

“Yes, your Grace. And they took up in a tower there in the Red Mountains of Dorne, a tower Elia’s father no longer occupied and had offered them. For he bore no ill will towards Rhaegar, who was willing to set Elia free to return to her home instead of being held prisoner by Aerys on Dragonstone. ‘The Tower of Joy’ Rhaegar called it. And for them I think it was, I’d never seen Rhaegar like that.” He trailed off, chancing a look around before meeting Dany’s eyes as she asked him another question, captivated by this tragic story of the brother she’d never known.

“Like what?”

Griff sighed and smiled but it was melancholy to Jon’s eyes. “Happy. Joyful. Peaceful. It was as if the Gods themselves had fashioned them for each other, then scattered them to the winds, but they’d found the pieces at last and fit them together and it was something so pure and true I couldn’t bear to look at it.” Griff looked at Jon and swallowed. “And he was never more joyful than the morning I set out to depart for the Bells, to take on Robert and protect my dearest friend and his lovely wife, because that morning Rhaegar told me that Lyanna was with child. That he would be a father once more.”

Jon could hear Tyrion and Varys gasp, and he hazarded a quick look in their direction, then looked to Dany, still cleaving to his side. She didn’t look surprised at all, she appeared to have a terrible sense of comprehension, eyes knowing and pitying as she looked at him. But he would not accept this, not until the man said it, because no matter how much he did not want to hear this final truth amidst this sea of lies, he would be tormented without it.

“And the babe?” Tyrion’s voice barely above a whisper but none spoke now, the silence a palpable thing in the air before them.

Now, finally, Griff slid from the log he’d been seated on, coming to his knees in front of Jon, for that was who his answer was meant for, not Tyrion Lannister.

“All too soon my Prince, my closest friend, the nearest to a brother I’d ever had, was dead by Robert’s hand in the Trident, with his love’s name on his lips. And Elia, sweet Elia, dead by the hand of Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane, raped and murdered there in King’s Landing amongst the bodies of her poor children. And Lyanna. Brave Lyanna, who for a brief moment was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…” There were tears pouring down Griff’s face now, as he faced Jon and gave him that answer he’d spent his life searching for, but now was not sure that he could bear it. The tragedy of it, the cost of all these lives, to what end? “…Lyanna died in that tower in Dorne, in the presence of her brother Ned. Her brother who’d found her at last and thought to rescue her, who’d fought and overcome the best of Rhaegar’s Kingsguard, men he’d forgone the protection of as he’d faced Robert because the lives of his love and his heir were more important. And Ned Stark, quiet Ned, a second son who’d never dreamed he’d have to accept the mantle of Lord of Winterfell…”

Jon could feel tears starting in his own eyes but whatever shame or embarrassment he might have once had was gone, replaced by a numbness, a buzzing in his ears, feeling only the tight band of Dany’s arms as they wrapped around him, hugging him impossibly close to bear the onslaught of this, the weight of this, with him.

“Ned Stark was perhaps the bravest of us all. Because he took his sister’s body home, and the baby she’d borne, a trueborn son of the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lady of Winterfell, and told the world the babe was his bastard. Because Ned knew, just as Lyanna had, that if Robert Baratheon ever learned who this boy was, this last living child of Rhaegar Targaryen, he would not hesitate to kill him.” Griff could talk no more, heaving great sobs as he knelt before Jon and Dany, his grief unbearable and awful to behold.

Jon’s cheeks were wet, he knew he was crying, but as he looked around the assemblage by this fire he saw it was not just him. Tyrion looked at he and Dany, reverently and quietly, wiping under his eyes and once seeing Jon’s gaze upon his, slowly knelt.

And then they all were…Gendry, Jorah, Varys even lowering himself and daring to spoil his spotless robes, Davos who looked at him with sorrow and joy, and Jon knew he should feel *something*. Something besides this gnawing grief that ate away inside his stomach like a starved rat.

“Jon.” He cast his eyes to the amethyst eyes of the woman he loved more than anything in the world, and saw that she understood. She could see what was happening to him. She would protect him and shield him from the world while he took in the enormity of what he now knew. Of what he was, where he’d come from, how many lives had been lost to bring about his birth. The suffering…it was causing bile to rise in his throat and she looked at him like a mother wolf then, fierce and defensive, as she called out to the gathered crowd, “Leave us! Now!”

He struggled to breath, air catching in his chest and he felt as though he may pass out, but her hand was small and warm and strong and she grabbed him and pulled him with her, into the warm safety of her tents, into a little world where decades of lies and deceptions and joy and pain would not touch them. Not now. Now was just them, and she guided him to the bed of furs. He stood like a statue as she pulled off his heavy cloak, gently, and pushed him back to lie on the soft hides. Her fingers were loving as she unlaced his boots and pulled them off, shoving the top furs aside to scoot in beside and drape herself over him. She smoothed her palm over his temples, closing his eyes and loosening his hair, willing him to relax and to breathe.

He did not speak, could not, but found himself soothed nonetheless by her care of him. She still loved him. She would not leave him.

“It’s alright, my love.” Her lips tickled his ear as she whispered to him, sliding her hand to cup his cheek and he sighed deep, knowing only the cradle of her arms, the heat in her touch, the warmth of her love as he cried against her, mourning the loss of something he’d never known. She held him tighter, kissing the tears and whispering that she loved him, that he was hers, and she would permit none to take him from her. And for a time, this was the only truth Jon needed to know, because Dany was the only truth he had left now.

  
  
Chapter 8: A Targaryen Alone  
Summary:

Daenerys shares a gift

  
  
Notes:

Our last chapter from the Road. Chapter 9 will take us to Winterfell, where we see what the Stark siblings have been up to, and Bran tries an experiment

  
  


Night was approaching, Daenerys knew, but she was loathe to be parted from Jon, even for the time it would take to summon food or drink or advisors. Perhaps she was being silly, she thought, but so be it. She would not make him to force everything back down, to slip back into that stoic, somber mask he must wear as King in the North. She was all too familiar with that. How many times had she been betrayed, deceived, used? And for all that she might have had people around her to help insulate her from the blows, no one ever truly understood. There was a weight and responsibility for Jon, expectations to be upheld, roles to play, and Kings and Queens were not allowed the freedom to feel that others were. She knew this all too well.

But Daenerys had always known who she was. She had always been sure of that, if nothing else. She was a Targaryen by blood and the Iron Throne was hers by right. It was that surety, of who she was and what she was meant to be, that had comforted her when she’d been delivered all the horrors life could present her. It was her bedrock, her foundation, the thing she always came back to when she was alone with herself, for there was no one she could trust enough to share the fears that dwelt inside her, or the pain in her soul when she’d had to be strong, no matter the cost.

Such was not the case for Jon. She looked at him now, seated at the makeshift desk and writing out a scroll to send a raven to his sister Sansa, letting her know they’d be arriving in two weeks if the weather held. He was strong, she knew, and he’d had his own life of betrayal and deceit, of hurts and grief and loneliness. But Jon had never known who he was, not really, and he’d based his entire life on what he’d always believed to be the truth. Bastard son of the honorable Ned Stark, a Wolf of Winterfell, but it had been a lie. He was a Stark, by blood, and not a bastard at all, but where Daenerys had always had that center to return to, Jon’s had been ripped away. He’d been adrift, loosed from the moorings he’d been anchored to, the lies he’d based his life on. He seemed better, regaining his composure, marshaling himself back to the tasks that were necessary before they broke camp in the morning and travelled the rest of the way to his home. 

Deep in that selfish heart of her that was just a woman, she was glad of this most unlikely revelation. That Jon was a Targaryen, he was her blood, a small piece of family that she’d thought no longer existed, save herself…it filled her with a softness for him that had existed but now had grown exponentially. Now they were bound together in a way she would be bound to no other; now their fates were tied for eternity, and she wished they were already at that stony snowy castle Tyrion had described to her, swearing themselves to each other and making that final, solemn promise to each other.

He looked up at her then, and she couldn’t help but smile softly in response. Sadness still dwelt there, in his eyes, but perhaps an acceptance was growing, as well. She walked over, clad in her riding pants and one of his tunics, loose in billowy on her slight frame and sat across his lap, watching as he sealed the scroll and set it aside. He placed a ticklish peck on her neck as he folded his arms around her, and she giggled, turning her lips to his and kissing him gently, not to inflame, but to soothe. This kiss was a promise, that she was his no matter what.

He broke the kiss, moving his lips to her ear. “Dany?”

She couldn’t stop the shiver at that rough purr of her name. “Yes, Jon?”

“Did you come over here meaning to seduce me?” The whispered words made her weak, picturing him taking her right there on that table.

She laughed, low, and trailed her finger along a brow and smiling at him. “No. Not yet at least. I mean to make sure we eat first, Jon Snow, for I have many plans for you before we must ride endlessly and I am left with my imagination.”

He made a show of looking down slowly, and she realized that his tunic left little to the imagination on her, the neckline gaping obscenely to show she wore nothing underneath.

“Then you’d better put something on under that or we’ll not dine for some time.” His gaze was hungry but she could tell he wasn’t quite there yet, wasn’t quite ready for the distraction their bodies could give each other.

“You great lusty beast.” She laughed at his chuckle and hugged him to her. “I must admit I am relieved. I wasn’t sure how you would feel about this. About us.”

He looked at her more seriously now, and leaned back a bit in the chair, leaving some room between their bodies as he considered what she said. “I can’t find it in me to care, really. I loved you before I knew any of this.” He waved his hand between them. “We’re going North to fight an army of dead men and probably all going to die horrible, terrible deaths. If am to die, Dany, I’ll not die in misery keeping myself from the woman I love because of a brother you never even knew.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Well, that’s good, because if you tried I would hunt you down with my dragons.” He laughed and she touched her lips to his. “Besides,” she said, pulling away, “as far as Targaryens go I think we’re taking wonderful steps to broaden our horizons.” At this she merited a full laugh and her heart was gladdened with it.

“Do you know why I love you, Jon?” 

He shook his head, still smiling, and said somewhat bashfully, “No, I can’t honestly say I do.”

She smiling, trailing a finger along his cheekbone. “Well, you are very modest, to start with. And I could write many wonderful poems to your lips and your marvelous arse. And your tongue, Gods the songs that could be written in praise of it!” She chuckled as he flushed.

“Now you’re just trying win your little game.”

She shook her head. “Those are all very good reasons, of course. But, truly my love, it’s because I don’t have to hide from you.” He looked at her quizzically, sliding his hands down to her hips as she shifted her body to straddle his thighs, bringing them to eye level with each other.

“You are the only other I have ever known that has taken on the responsibility of being terrible. And having to live with it. We have had to take many lives, you and I, do many terrible things. We did them for the right reasons, but for all the people around us to help us and advise us, you are the only other I have met who has experienced that weight as I have.” She kissed his cheek gently. “You know what it is to remember the faces of those you have killed, had to live with the memory of those you couldn’t save.” Now she kissed his forehead and brought a hand to the back of his neck, hugging herself a bit closer to his body.

“You know what it is to see those things play out in your head, night after night.” She felt moisture gathering in her eyes, and she could see his become a bit glassy too. “And it has not made you a monster. You have survived it, because of who you are. You are not terrible for power, to crush people to your will. You are terrible because sometimes it is required, and there is no other choice.”

He brought a hand to her cheek, whispering, “Sometimes strength is terrible.”

Dany nodded, feeling a tear escape. “Not just for those who receive it, but for we who must wield it. I see you and I think maybe it will not make me a monster either. Maybe I will not become my father.” She couldn’t hold back the little sob that escaped her throat. “And I think it would not be so terrible, if I could bear it with you.”

His face twisted at that, she could tell he was fighting back his own tears, because she *did* know. The crushing guilt and shame and fear, never being sure you were making the right decision, torturing yourself with the idea it might have been the wrong one.

“My father always had a rule. ‘The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword’ and for a long time I wasn’t sure what that meant. I thought it had to do with honor and responsibility, but then I had to swing the sword for the first time. Then I understood.” He took a deep breath. “It becomes far too easy to take a life when you do not have to live with it, when you have not administered the blow yourself. And when it becomes as easy as ordering a servant to bring you your dinner, you stop valuing life at all.”

She considered this, and thought for not the first time how wrong Viserys had been about Ned Stark. He’d been wrong about everything.

“I have been alone all my life, Jon Snow. Since the day Viserys sold me to the Dothraki, until you came to the shores of Dragonstone, so serious and stubborn.” She felt his grip tighten on her hips at the mention of Viserys. Oh, how angry he’d been when she told him of it the first time, raging that a brother would ever treat his sister so. Angry that she’d experienced what she had. “But I am not alone anymore…” she kissed his lips now, sweetly, pulling back to look into that flinty stare, faces close. “You have trusted me with your heart, Jon Snow, and I will not be reckless with it.”

He grasped her the sides of her face now, his gaze boring into hers. “Nor I with yours. Because I too, have been alone. I had a family, yes, but I was never one of them. Always apart. Always different. And then I joined the Night’s Watch and found myself alone, again, in what I thought was right, just trying to save lives and giving my own for it. Then my sister came and I fought to take back our home, but still I was alone. Not a true Stark, just a bastard, but their King until they found someone better perhaps.” Jon gave her a slow kiss, bringing her upper lip between his then releasing it. “Now I have you. And if you think a name will stop me from loving you, or wanting you, then I must try harder to show you how foolish that idea is.”

There was no way to stop herself from kissing him truly then, sliding her tongue over and against his, tasting and testing and tangling until she felt desire beginning to overtake her. When she kissed him, she felt…free. It was like flying.

She stilled in his arms suddenly and felt him tense, an idea climbing into her mind swiftly and suddenly and she felt a wave of excitement. There was one thing she had, one precious enormous thing, that she had always known she would be alone in. For there were no others with the blood of dragons, she’d thought, and so the skies would always be only hers. Alone. And flying on Drogon was exhilarating and amazing and priceless in the grandness of it, the power…but she was not the only Targaryen anymore. This was something she could share with him, something that could belong to them alone. This was something they could do together.

“Jon, get dressed, warmly!” She was up and out of his lap quick as lightning, hurrying to grab the heavy overcoat she had flown to Eastwatch in.

“Where are we going?” Dany could tell he was confused by her sudden change in mood, but he did as she asked, pulling on his boots and his heavy furs. He gathered his hair back and the uniform was complete: here was the King in the North.

She would show him the true inheritance of House Targaryen. She would show him what it truly meant to fly.

“We’re going to be Dragons, Jon.”

\----------------------------

(Little Mini-bonus scene – Jon)

He’d been pulled along in Dany’s wake, dragged quickly through the camp before anyone could even address them, then through the trees to a hilltop the dragons had chosen while they made camp. Her excitement was contagious, and he could feel his palms tingling with it as they approached the pair, scales glinting in the fading daylight.

Dany dropped his hand and walked over to Drogon, stepping right up and scratching the scales between a great nostril and upper jaw. The great black head turned into the touch, and the dragon almost seemed to purr with it.

Jon directed his eyes to the other dragon, Rhaegal’s head raising as he slowly walked up, mindful of his dream and not wanting to initiate any contact unless the dragon seemed receptive. He looked into one large golden eye, waiting, for what he wasn’t sure.

Then, slowly, that massive snout lowered and edged toward him, finally resting on the ground near his feet. He gazed into that gleaming orb, and knelt before the dragon’s head. He whispered, firmly, “I know who I am.”

The dragon chuffed, blowing a puff of smoke towards him, then held still once more. Jon skinned the glove from his palm, just as he had done with Drogon, and moved to lay his palm on the green scaly skin. He did it slowly, to give Rhaegal a chance to stop him as he had in the dreaming, but the dragon remained calm. He inhaled sharply, just before his palm made contact, unsure of what to expect.

Then he touched Rhaegal and it was like nothing he’d experienced. It reminded him of trying to force yourself upstream, rapids raging against you. He did not fight it, instead letting that feeling wash over him and into him. Power. Such great power. And then a whisper. Barely there, and not the booming ancient voice that he’d heard in his dreams.

_Now comes the King._

Jon smiled.

  
  
Chapter 9: Dark Sister  
Summary:

Arya's brother is coming home. Bran has questions no one can answer.

  
  
End Notes:

Next up, more reunions. The Stark Sisters learn something about Daenerys. Tyrion learns something about Sansa. Griff pays his respects. Smut. You know the drill by now :)

  
  


Arya looked down on the busy courtyard from the catwalk above. Shipments of dragonglass, the dark glittering stone her brother believed could fight the army of the dead marching their way from beyond the wall, had been arriving steadily, hauled off to the forges to be turned into arrowheads, knives, crude swords, and anything else they could manage with the brittle obsidian. She sighed, drumming her fingers on the rail, trying to decide whether to go and help with the fletching or check in with Sansa to see what needed to be done.

War, in her estimation, was fucking boring. When she’d first heard the tales from Sansa and Bran, tales of what had befallen Jon in the Night’s Watch (bloody traitors) and what was coming for them, for all of them…she’d alternated between a deep abiding anger at those who’d betrayed her brother and a knot of fear in the pit of her stomach that was unfamiliar to her after her training in Braavos. That fear was a tool as well, something to be transformed into anticipation, readiness for the fight they would face, but it was taking a sight longer than she’d expected and it made her nervous.

She’d been forged into a weapon there, serving the Many-Faced God, and it did give her a bit of a thrill to see the Lords of the North shy away from her a bit, especially after Littlefinger had met his dramatic end in the Great Hall of Winterfell. 

She smiled grimly at the remembrance. It had felt good, she had to admit, and there was no shame for her in that. That snake had orchestrated so many deaths, so much Stark blood painted his hands…yes, delivering Northern justice to Lord Petyr Baelish had felt very good indeed. And, she mused, it had brought them all together, she and Sansa and Bran, and united them all in a common goal. Bran was a mystery to her, she wasn’t sure exactly what had happened to him, for he seemed to speak in riddles and vague statements that seemed both ominous and awful at times. He knew things, things he had no way of knowing, and she did not doubt that he had become something altogether different from that little lad who loved to climb so long ago. Sansa was good at politics, she had the right words at the right times, she was proper and a Lady and could deal with these mouthy, pushy Lords…but Arya was a killer. Arya was the sword that would protect the little family she had left until her brother returned.

Jon. The other reason for her nervous anticipation and frustration with the drag of time. Jon was coming home and she would finally see him again. Jon was the brother she’d loved the most, the one who’d understood what she really was before she’d truly known, the one who saw in her the fighter she could be, even if she was a girl. He’d given her a sword and left, they’d all left, and things had fallen into a right state of shit and misery for the great Starks of Winterfell since then.

But now they’d all be together, and Jon was a King. She couldn’t help the smirk that twisted her lips at that. Who would’ve thought all those years ago that Jon, that unassuming sad brother always lurking in the corners, a bastard hated by her mother but loved by her father would become a King? It didn’t surprise her, she’d always seen that Jon was good and kind but he did not shy away when it was time to fight, when it was necessary. No, she wasn’t surprised by that.

And she wasn’t surprised that somehow, Jon had convinced Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, the last of her House, to ride North to help them. Not just with some of her army, either, and her amassed forces were impressive in size and brutality if the ravens were right. She’d heard some tales of the Mother of Dragons while she’d been on the streets of Braavos, Cat of the Canals who always had an ear to the dark shady alleys where whispers and rumors lived. She’d heard of this silver-haired Queen who was, by all accounts, beautiful and fierce and commanded Dothraki horselords and the Unsullied armies of Astapor, this girl who’d hatched dragons and rode them into battle against the Lannister forces like the stories she’d been enamored with as a girl. 

What did surprise her, what had surprised Sansa and all these fool bannerman who’d chosen her brother as their King then felt it acceptable to second guess every choice he made – what surprised them all was that somehow Jon had managed to secure the entire strength of House Targaryen without giving up the North in exchange. Jon was bringing them armies and dragons and a Queen who’d promised her aid but would not take the North in exchange, if Wyman Manderly’s raven was to be believed.

She was proud. Not one of these shits had ever expected Jon to amount to much, no one had expectations where bastards were concerned, and her brother, her favorite, he’d proven them all wrong. Somewhere down deep, there was a sliver of her that was still just Arya, that part that dreamed sometimes of her father’s execution, her mother and brother’s murders, who just wanted her family back. That part of her just wanted him back and home and to hug him and see him, to see what he’d become, what he’d fought and clawed and made himself into. She wanted him to see what she’d become, thanks in part to him and that little sword she’d never be parted from again. She wanted her family, her pack, the wolves of Winterfell, under one roof again.

And she wanted to see some bloody dragons. Oh yes, she thought, chuckling and heading towards the forge, they’d all be pissing their breeches at that.

\-------------------------

“What are you doing, Bran?” Arya made her way to where Bran sat beside the Heart Tree, noticing he didn’t seem lost to some vision or the other, just staring up into the blood red leaves.

“Thinking.” 

Arya snorted, sitting on one of the great roots that rode above the earth from the base of the Weirwood. “Plenty of time for that, I reckon.”

“A man is coming today. A friend of Jon’s from the Night’s Watch. If he seeks me out send him to me, I would speak to him of the threat beyond the Wall.” Well. That wasn’t very illuminating, but Bran seemed to have his reasons up ‘til now; She wouldn’t push for more information. Bran told them things when he was ready.

“Alright, then. Have you seen Jon? Is he close?” Sansa had gotten a raven almost two weeks ago from their brother from the Kingsroad, letting them know the status of their travel. She expected him there soon and the anticipation was murderous.

“Tomorrow, I expect. The weather has been kind.” Bran actually looked at her now, managing a bit of a smile, and there was a pang in nostalgia in her chest at this glimpse of the old Bran. Perhaps he was still in there, somewhere, under all this Three-Eyed Raven business.

“Have you seen them?” Arya wondered if she’d need to explain further, but then Bran smiled truly, knowing what she meant. 

“The dragons? Yes. All of them.” At this Bran looked a bit sad, breaking eye contact with her and looking down at his lap.

“What is it?” 

Bran sighed then, pulling off a glove. He was gone now, that old Bran, and now the Three-Eyed Raven was back. She’d seen this often enough to know he was about to place his hand on that tree and then he’d no longer see what was in front of him. His eyes would go white and he would see those things that only he could see and he was obviously done talking her for now. She knew she was being dismissed and tried not to be too frustrated. This was who Bran was now, what he was, and she would have to accept him as that and expect no more.

“It’s Jon’s story to tell. And the Queen’s. I think we shall learn much and more once they arrive, as Jon is bringing many truths with him.” Bran placed a palm to the tree and Arya turned to leave, puzzling over her brother’s words. 

Bran called out to her back, “Let Sansa know when to expect them. She doesn’t like to be surprised.”

Arya simply nodded and raised a hand in farewell. Sansa was in a right state already, trying to prepare for Jon and the Queen and the massive number of soldiers they brought with them. Sansa worried, a bit too much for Arya’s liking, but then Sansa had known horrors Arya had not. But Sansa had survived. Arya had survived. Bran had survived. 

And Jon was coming home.

\------------------------

Arya felt excitement and anxiety war in her chest. She cantered her mare back and forth in front of the gates, eyes peering out at the horizon, anticipation making her palms sweaty inside her gloves. They’d been spotted, the procession of men and armies and horses and royalty, the prior night, and she had told Sansa she would meet them out front. Sansa had predictably resisted at first, wanting to make a good impression on this Queen who came to help them, but she’d given in quickly. They’d both known Arya wasn’t going to be a right proper lady greeting Jon and Daenerys Targaryen inside the castle courtyard, bowing and curtseying prettily.

“Fine,” Sansa had huffed, “get your foolishness out of the way outside the Keep. I know better than to try to stop you.” Sansa had tempered the words with a smile, then, and Arya had given her one in return. Her sister understood.

Arya looked up now, movement catching her eye and causing her breath to catch in her chest. They came. She waited, feeling frozen in place, even on horseback, and as they drew closer she could see him riding a fair bit ahead of the party, a slight form on a white mare beside him keeping pace. The Dragon Queen.

She pulled the reins, bringing her mount's head around and clicking her teeth, heels digging in as she urged the mare into a gallop and raced across the snow fields. Now she realized what Sansa must have suspected, as she was far too overcome for this to be a dignified reunion in any way.

She panted as she rode, struggling to breathe, because from here that younger somber brother she remembered looked so much like Father that she thought she was seeing a ghost. She drew closer and she could feel tears threatening but she beat them back. She was *not* going to be a whinging, sobbing little baby. A girl does not cry, not anymore. A girl had not cried in a very, very long time.

Arya was close enough to see his face now, and the face of the silver-haired Queen beside him, and she knew he’d recognized her when a look of absolute joy flashed across his face. Now there was no hope of stopping the tears that filled her eyes, blurring him into a dark, furry shape as she drew her horse to a halt, hopping down half blind and racing towards that form. She knew she would be alright. A girl had learned to see with more than her eyes, after all.

She heard him exclaim “Arya!”, and all she could do was run, headlong into that voice that was the same but different. Still kind but older, a bit harder, a little weary, and full relief. She swiped a hand across her eyes and saw him, fully. She was wrong, before. He wore furs like Father, and a great sword, like Father, his hair was swept back, like Father. But this man, this man was wholly her brother. He was a King, now, and he looked the part. That didn’t stop her from leaping at him, grabbing him in a tight hug that probably made it hard for him to breathe.

But her brother, Jon, that sad somber boy who’d left to join the Night’s Watch and was now a bloody King, he didn’t say a word in resistance, just wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly to him, shoulders shaking a bit and she knew he had his own tears to battle with and he had lost.

Arya felt something unwind within her then. Something that had been coiled and tensed like a viper, ready to strike out at anyone and anything within reach, something that had grown fierce and poisonous within her since she’d last seen him. It loosened its’ hold then, as her brother held her, and she could not fight it anymore. The great heaving sobs tore out of her painfully, and she shook and surely made a wet snotty mess of those furs so much like Father’s.

It felt like forever that they stood, like a pair of bloody ladies sobbing in a field Arya thought, and she released him from her grip. They stood there, smiling watery smiles at each other for a moment while swiping gloved hands across eyes, pulling themselves back together.

“Hells, Arya. Look at you. What happened to that little twig covered in dirt that used to chase me about to spar?” She could see sadness, as if he could read on her face exactly what had happened to her since their family had been scattered across the realms. But she would not be sad. She had become who she had become, and so had he, and now they were all back together, the last living Starks of Winterfell, and she would not shed another tear for the past. 

“She’s not here anymore, brother. She had to become someone else.” She saw a grave look flash across his features then, and understanding. Of course Jon would understand. He’d had to become someone else, too.

“Indeed. So, are you a fine and proper lady now? Sansa been forcing you into teas and sewing circles then?” Ah, a flash of the old Jon. She smirked and punched him in the arm.

“Oh, piss off, Jon. I haven’t changed that much.”

He laughed then, and ruffled her hair in a truly annoying way. “Maybe not so much after all. I shouldn’t be surprised that you survived, I suppose. You were always the toughest little shit here.”

Arya chuckled, putting on a mask of offended shock. She looked over, having forgotten about who had accompanied her brother, and watched as the Mother of Dragons dismounted and approached, somewhat hesitant until Jon glanced back and waved her over.

“Jon, how could you? Is that anyway for a King to talk?” She slipped out from under the hand that had been mussing her hair. “And in front of a Queen? Such manners. Septa Mordane would have an absolute *fit*.”

“Fuck off, Arya.” He shoved her shoulder and she laughed, watching as the Dragon Queen reached Jon’s side and he held an arm out to her. Well, now, Arya thought as she watched the Queen look at her brother with a soft smile, this was interesting. She stored it away, to think on later.

“Arya, this is Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen…” Jon looked from Arya to the Queen and smiled slyly. “Do I have to do the whole thing? It’s too many titles to keep up with, you know.”

Arya watched Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen arch an eyebrow at her brother. “Hmmmm. Missendai manages just fine, Jon Snow.”

Jon just shrugged. “Well, Missendai is much smarter than I am, I reckon. And she’s had much more practice.”

The Queen smiled then, amused and indulgent to Arya’s eye. She looked at Arya now, her smile wide and friendly. “Just call me Daenerys, Arya Stark of Winterfell. The rest is a bit of a mouthful.”

Arya narrowed her eyes a bit, considering. She wasn’t sure if this lack of formality was genuine, but there was certainly something going on between this awfully beautiful Queen and her brother. “D’you want me to bow, Daenerys? I’m afraid I’m not much of a lady, so you’ll have to tell me what you are expecting here, from me.” Arya let some challenge tinge the statement. 

Daenerys arched an eyebrow once more, now at Arya, but her face grew serious and Arya wondered if perhaps she’d overstepped a bit. This *was* a Queen, a Queen with dragons and a massive army at her command.

“No Stark will bow to me, Arya of Winterfell. I am here as your ally, not to rule over you or your lands. I have pledged myself and my armies and my dragons to the North. House Stark *is* the North, as far as I am concerned, and I will see no more harm come to it while I still draw breath.”

Well, then. That was not at all what Arya expected to hear. “That’s good. We’re running out of Starks as it is. And do you think my brother’s bannerman will believe you? That you can protect the North, all of us, from the army of the dead? From Cersei Lannister?” Arya spit out that accursed name, a remembered fury of one she had yet to cross off her list.

Daenerys simply smiled, serenely, and came closer, placing her fingers under Arya’s chin gently and directing her face to the sky.

The Queen laughed at Arya’s quick exhalation as two massive dragons glided over them, screaming as they flew over their mother as if in saluation.

“I’ve found, Arya Stark, that dragons can be enormously convincing.”

Jon let out a booming laugh and Arya had to join in. This was the most bloody amazing thing she’d ever seen, her childhood fantasies come to life, and she was filled with a sense of wonder she didn’t think she’d ever felt.

Her brother was home. And he brought dragons with him. Arya glanced between the two as they made to mount their horses, riding behind them as the pair made their way to the gates of Winterfell, heads leaned in a bit and having a quiet conversation.

Her brother was home and was *infinitely* more interesting than when he’d left. She laughed to herself, remembering the boredom of the prior weeks. Things certainly weren’t boring anymore.

\-----------------------

Bran knew Jon approached, bringing armies and dragons and hidden secrets he’d managed to learn without his brother’s help. He was running out of time. 

He threw himself back in his mind, sifting through bits and pieces and trying to fit them all together. So many questions he needed to ask, so many answers he needed to find, but there was no one like him anymore. No one who could understand what he sought and how to find what he needed to help his family. To help the living.

But perhaps…

He found himself alone, in that cave he’d sheltered in with Jojen and Meera and Hodor, with the Children of the Forest. The cave of the Three-Eyed Raven, riddled with roots, hiding the ancient being who’d once been Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven. A Targaryen bastard who’d lived far beyond the age of normal men. 

He walked through the darkness, to the chamber he knew held that cryptic being suspended within the bark of that aged Weirwood, thousands of years old and the only thing keeping the man alive. If he had even been a man anymore, by the time Bran had met him.

There were no signs of damage or the vicious battle that had taken place when Bran and Meera had fled, leaving Hodor behind to stave off the Night King and his minions. Perhaps, then, he’d come back far enough. 

Bran walked past Leaf and some of the other Children, and they made no show that they saw him or sensed him there at all. 

He brought himself to stand before the being that had been his teacher, briefly, who’d tried to give him the tools he needed to carry on in his passing. 

“Hello, Brandon Stark.”

Bran felt a bit of surprise. He had suspected this would work, but the reality of his still took him aback. He couldn’t pretend to understand the mechanics of all this, of what it was to *be* the Three-Eyed Raven. There hadn’t been time for that, not enough by half.

“You can see me?” 

A whispery chuckle. “I can see everything, Brandon Stark. How do you find yourself here, but not here? I can only assume from the way you have appeared before me that I have finally died, finally departed to rejoin my family once more in the realms beyond the living.” A sigh. “More than a bit of a relief, to be honest.”

“I need your help.” Bran paused, unsure of how to articulate what he meant. He wasn’t even sure he knew, but he had some idea. “The Night King comes. His armies come. He is closed to me now, I suspect he his blocking himself from me, but his armies remain clear. I need to know if it’s possible…” Another pause, as he gathered his thoughts. “Is it possible to take control of them? His armies? I know he is warging them. I have tested their limits and those of his lieutenants who command his soldiers. I believe he wargs his commanders and they control the armies. But I need to know if I can take control of them as well. If it will kill me to do so.”

A sigh, like wind sweeping through the trees. “Possible? Yes. For you? That I will not say, Brandon Stark, for it would require a tremendous amount of control. Control I fear you may not yet possess. You are a warg, Brandon Stark, and you are correct to assume that the Night King is as well. But he has had centuries and centuries to hone his abilities and I fear you might not survive an attempt on his or his commanders.”

“But what of the army itself? The animals amongst them, perhaps? He has many creatures in his ranks.” Bran would not give up on this, not yet. It was the only path he could see that would possibly turn the tide. 

“Come here, boy. Stand before me.” 

Bran came closer, only a foot from the trunk housing the Three-Eyed Raven’s body, but the man’s eyes did not open. Bran knew, though, that a Three-Eyed Raven did not need his physical eyes to see what he wanted.

“Do not attempt the soldiers. Not yet. For you may bring unwanted attention on yourself before the living are ready to make a final stand.” Bran shuddered, remembering the searing, icy grip on his arm where the Night King had touched him, marked him. “But the creatures, the animals…perhaps you might start there.”

Bran breathed in, relief coursing through him.

“But, Brandon Stark, heed my warning. You must be slow, subtle, unobtrusive. You must slide into their consciousness as light as a feather, lest you alert their commander to your actions. If you are not careful you will bring their entire armies down on your head, on the head’s of your family.” A pause. “Your brother.”

Bran’s relief was extinguished, and now he was a bit wary. “You mean Jon? My brother Jon?”

“Oh yes, Jon. Your brother…your cousin. He is important, Brandon Stark, and he must not lead the fight until he is ready. He and the Dragon Queen.” Now the man’s eyes opened, if Bran could even call him a man anymore, and pierced his with a heat Bran hadn’t thought possible.

“Look to the wall, Brandon Stark. What do you see?”

Bran turned, scanning the wall, and his eyes finally lit upon a glint of metal, a flash in the gloom of the cave. He approached it slowly and a memory flashed before him, of fleeing the cave, Meera grabbing this sword as they desperately tried to escape. A memory of travelling to the Wall with Uncle Benjen, that sword wrapped in pelts and bundled on the sled he had been pulled upon. A memory of arriving home, his belongings being delivered to his room. Including this sword. Still wrapped in pelts and placed on the table before the window, hidden from eyes who might seek it.

“What is it?”

Now Bran saw a dark, grim smile on the wizened face and turned back to the sword as Bryden Rivers spoke. “That is Dark Sister, Brandon Stark. Ancient sword of House Targaryen. I brought it with me when I took the Black, and served as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It came beyond the Wall, with me still when I became the Three-Eyed Raven. And here it has stayed, thought lost to the Realms of Men, waiting.”

Bran tore his eyes away from the blade, dirty and dull in the gloom of the room, but finely wrought. “Waiting for what?”

“For your brother, Bran. This sword is meant for him, ready to be wielded by a Targaryen again, at last. A Targaryen who will use it not to conquer, but to protect.” His voice was growing thready, so Bran made his way back to where the old man hung, consumed in tree bark. 

“He *must* have that sword, Brandon Stark. See to it that he gets it, or all is lost.” Bran nodded and the eyes of the Three-Eyed Raven closed once more.

“BRAN!”

Bran felt his body start as Sansa yelled near his ear. He opened his eyes and there she stood, excited and anxious, and he heard screeching rend the air. Bodies vast and enormous passed overhead, shadowing both he and Sansa as they flew.

“Jon’s home, Bran.” She moved behind his chair, grabbing the handles and pushing to wheel him out to the courtyard to greet his brother at last.

“After we welcome them, Sansa, I must speak to them. Jon and Daenerys, and you and Arya. Samwell, too. There is much to discuss.”

  
  
Chapter 10: The Godswood Bandit  
Summary:

A slight change in plan - so a slightly divided chapter. The smut will be found in 11, which I'm currently plugging away on as a companion chapter to this. The below chapter is Dany's POV of the day, 11 will be Jon's.

The Sisters Stark get the know the Dragon Queen - because one aspect I'm really looking forward to is the interaction between Arya and Sansa and Dany, and how that might go down once Show Jon/Dany make it to Winterfell. I imagine it going something like this.

  
  
End Notes:

Sooooooo 11 will take us through Jon's day, a meeting with Bran, a reunion with Sam, some revelations, maybe a sword or two, then the smut that immediately follows the ending scene in this chapter. And don't worry...we won't be taking a day by day breakdown every chapter. But I thought this first day back at Winterfell deserved a special look, some extra time, because it's a pretty big deal.

  
  


Daenerys sucked in a breath as the party neared the gates, Winterfell larger and grander than she’d ever imagined. 

“It’s beautiful, Jon. Magnificent. It looks as though it’s been here for thousands of years.” She didn’t know that she’d ever seen such an ancient structure in Westeros, the stone walls and towers a bit forbidding and sprawling around them as they rode through the front of the Keep and into the courtyard.

Jon’s sister Arya rode behind them, trailed by their advisors and her bloodriders. She’d instructed her generals and some of their Westerosi counterparts to halt a bit of a distance from the castle, to await further instructions once they’d settled on the best locations to set up camps for the armies they brought with them.

“It is. Very old. They say that Bran the Builder raised it. And it was Bran the Builder who built the Wall.” Daenerys knew the story; Tyrion had made sure she knew some of the Northern lore, and as the seat of the Warden of the North, Winterfell was the subject of most of them.

She and Jon fell silent as they reached the center of the courtyard, dismounting as the rest of their party did. Jon proffered his right elbow, and Daenerys took it gladly. She was more nervous than she cared to think on, but thus far she hoped she’d gotten off on the right foot with at least one of Jon’s sisters. She glanced back at the girl, who came up beside her on her right and whispered, “Don’t worry. Sansa looks sterner than she really is.”

Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, looked stern indeed. Her hair was a waterfall of flame, and she wore the furs of the North as her brother did. She was tall and for a moment Daenerys thought she looked as forbidding as the aged stone walls surrounding them. But Daenerys also knew what this Northern lady had experienced – things Daenerys had become intimately familiar with in the past few years. It had brought her to tears when Jon had told her, late at night on the ship to White Harbor, of how his sister had been a hostage in King’s Landing, forced to witness her father’s execution, left to the mercy of the Lannisters. How she’d been forced to marry Daenerys’s own Hand, how she’d escaped after Joffrey Baratheon’s death only to be delivered to much more horrifying circumstances in her own home. Oh yes, Daenerys knew all to well what it was like to be raped and defiled and all alone, with only herself to depend on. If Sansa Stark did not trust easily, Daenerys could not blame her for it. She had good reason to be wary of strangers in her home.

The best Daenerys could hope for, as she approached the King in the North’s sister and assembled Northerners, was to show her that she would do all she could to prevent any more harm to Jon and his family. 

“Welcome home, brother.” Lady Stark’s words were quiet, but she smiled softly as Jon hugged his sister with as little propriety as he’d shown when he hugged Arya in the snow fields before Winterfell’s gates. “It’s good to see you managed not to get yourself killed on your mission to the South. And that you’ve returned with all that you sought when you left.”

Jon gave his sister a wry smile, bringing up his free hand and placing it over the one Daenerys had curled around his bicep. “A couple of close calls, Sansa, but I managed to make it back in one piece. With a little help, of course.” He turned at that to grin quickly at Dany. “May I present our guest, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” 

Dany smiled at the girl and took the hand Sansa thrust forward. Lady Stark curtsied prettily, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the differences in these two girls, raised in the same household. “A pleasure, your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell. We are most happy to have you and your forces join our own.” 

Daenerys gave a nod of her head, and heard Arya clear her throat at her side. “What my sister means to say, Daenerys, is thank you for coming to help us without burning down our home first with your dragons and forcing us to bend the knee.” Dany had to smother a laugh with the back of her hand, now free from Sansa’s grip, and she watched the two sisters stare each other down.

Sansa huffed out a breath. “Your Grace, you must forgive my sister. She seems to find much pleasure in being as inappropriate and annoying as possible.” The girl’s cheeks were flushed red, and her eyes were narrowed dangerously at her dark-haired sister, who just laughed.

Dany gave what she hoped was a soothing smile to the Lady of Winterfell. “Don’t trouble yourself over it, my Lady. Thank you both for such a kind welcome into your home. And for allowing your brother to take the risk of travelling to Dragonstone in the first place. I fear we would all be lost if not for your bravery and trust in your King.” Sansa’s eyes narrowed again as she looked between Dany and Jon, assessing them both.

“Just so.” Sansa looked then to Daenerys’s entourage, and Tyrion chose that moment to step forward. He took Sansa’s hand, rather gallantly it seemed to Dany, and gave it a gentle kiss. 

“My Lady, it has been far too long, and you are far more beautiful than when we last parted, if that’s possible.” Dany peeked over at Jon, who was eyeing Tyrion a bit suspiciously. 

“I thank you my Lord. I am pleased we have both managed to survive your sister’s machinations.” Sansa gave him a bit of a smile, and Dany felt a bit relieved. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as awkward as she’d feared, when she’d learned that Tyrion had briefly been married to Jon’s sister.

Daenerys motioned to Missendai and Varys then, who stood a bit apace of Tyrion. “This is Missendai, my dearest friend, handmaiden, and translator, and I believe you are acquainted with Varys, my Master of Whispers.” Sansa dipped a polite nod to Missendai, and then turned her eyes to Varys, her jaw set firm and granting him a decidedly less friendly acknowledgement.

Davos walked hurriedly up to Jon then, speaking quietly in his ear. Jon nodded, giving him an “Aye” in affirmation, then pulling his arm from Dany’s, somewhat reluctantly she was pleased to see.

“I’m going to have to see to the camps and getting our forces settled.” She felt a bit of disappointment, then. Her skin had been crawling with want for him the last two weeks of travel, only managing stolen heated kisses as they’d hadn’t made a proper camp since Jon had learned the truth about himself. “Perhaps…” Jon’s eyes darted between his two sisters. “Perhaps my sisters would be so kind as to give you a tour of the grounds? At least until your room is prepared and your belonging are taken care of?”

Sansa nodded. “Of course, brother.” The redhead looked at Dany then, with a bit more interest it seemed but still wary. “Would that be to your liking, your Grace?”

Daenerys nodded, happy to have something to distract her from the urge to peel every last stitch of clothing from Jon’s body and then taste all of him. She could wait a few more hours, and now she was presented with the opportunity of spending some time alone with his sisters. She desperately wanted them to like her, which was an unfamiliar twinge but one she could not deny.

She looked over at Missendai. “You will be alright, my friend?” The exotic woman smiled. 

“Go, your Grace. I will see to your rooms and then…perhaps check in with the Unsullied. See that they are settled.”

Dany smirked. “No doubt you have *many things* to discuss.”

Missendai just nodded smartly and took her leave. Daenerys looked to Arya and Sansa then, ready to depart. “Shall we?”

Sansa extended an elbow as Jon had earlier, and Dany linked her arm through it. “Let’s start with the Glass Gardens then. Being from the South you might appreciate a break from the cold.”

\---------------

Sansa had been right, Daenerys was pleased to find. It was warm and humid in these Glass Gardens, all manner of green things thriving in this icy climate surrounding them.

Dany walked, trailing a hand along some beautiful red flowers to her left. “It’s marvelous. How is such a thing possible?”

Sansa considered the question, walking close but giving Daenerys room to explore. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. Something to do with the hot springs, I believe. They’re underground and at some point the inhabitants of Winterfell discovered a way to direct the water flow through the walls of the keep itself. It might be frightfully cold, but we do have hot water, thank the Gods.”

“That’s remarkable.” Dany stopped, looking around and taking in this warm oasis in the middle of this cold Northern Keep. “Are those fruit trees?” Sansa nodded at the question and smiled slightly.

“Have a look.”

Dany felt herself practically skipping, she hadn’t had fresh fruit in quite some time. She approached, smelling something so familiar, a scent that made her heart feel as warm as the air surrounding her. “Lemons.” Her voice was only a little more than an exhale, and she trailed her fingers over the bright yellow skin.

“Do you like them? They’re my favorites.” Sansa walked up to her side now, plucking a ripe lemon from the tree and breathing in as she brought it to her face.

“Mine as well. When I was a girl, in Braavos…before Ser Willam died and my brother and I took to living on the streets, we lived in a little house. I was small at the time, but it was the happiest I remember being. It had a red door and a lemon tree growing in the yard.” Now Dany reached a hand up as well, picking a lemon and inhaling it’s scent as Sansa had. “When I smell them I feel as though I remember what it was to be happy, as a child.”

Dany saw Arya and Sansa exchange a look, one that spoke of understanding such things, and remembered that they were young as well when their family was ripped apart. Perhaps they had more in common than she’d first thought. 

“You are lucky to have a brother who cares so much for you.” Daenerys spotted an arrangement of benches up ahead, and made a beeline for them as she spoke. She remembered what she had learned from both Tyrion and Jon: the North respected honesty. So she would give Jon’s sisters some of the truth of her, so that perhaps they would not feel like such strangers when she wed their brother.

Dany perched on the edge of a bench, Sansa taking a seat opposite her and Arya sprawling on the ground beside them, taking out the wicked-edged dagger on her belt and beginning to clean her nails with it.

She saw Sansa cut her eyes at her sister’s actions, with Arya just shrugging and making no move to cease what her sister must consider even *more* inappropriate behavior. Sansa just sighed and looked at Dany a bit apologetically. “You mentioned your brother…did he not care for you? I don’t mean to pry if it’s none of my business, but…”

Daenerys cut her off before she could apologize. “No, no, it’s alright. I would have you know more of my past if I want you to trust me as your ally.” She twisted her hands a bit in her lap, continuing, “He may have cared for me when I was very young, but he always blamed me for the death of our mother. She died after birthing me, and we had to flee to the Free Cities to escape Robert’s assassins.” Her smile was bittersweet. “Yes, I think he did care for me once, but it was hard, growing up as we did. After our guardian died we had to survive on our own, you see, digging in trash to find food, sleeping on rooftops and abandoned buildings. We found aid here and there, people who knew who we were at least and would give us scraps of kindness where they could.”

“I spent some time in Braavos as well.” Arya briefly stopped scraping and looked at Dany, face inscrutable. “I trained at the House of Black and White.”

Daenerys couldn’t hide her look of shocked surprise. “The assassins? That serve the Many-Faced God?” 

Arya looked grim. “As you like.”

“Is it true?” Dany found herself whispering and she wasn’t sure why, as though worried they might be overheard. Arya quirked an eyebrow for her to continue. “That you take the faces of those you kill? That you can disguise yourself as anyone?”

Arya just smiled dangerously and repeated, “As you like.”

Dany would ponder this later, with Jon. These Starks of Winterfell were certainly full of surprises. “We do what we must to survive, especially alone in a city with no shelter.” Arya nodded, but said nothing, so Dany spoke on. “Perhaps that was what made Viserys desperate enough to sell me to the Dothraki in the first place. Survival. He was at his wit’s end, I think, people calling him ‘Beggar King’ and he convinced both himself and me that it was a worthy trade. He sold me to the strongest, most savage Khal with the largest army. In exchange he thought he’d have an army to retake the Iron Throne.” Dany sighed. “By then? No, I do not think he cared for me at all. I was so frightened, still a girl really, and I’d never lain with a man. But he was my brother, and the only family I had left, so I did as he expected. Even after he told me he’d let the Khal and all forty-thousand of his horselords, and their horses, fuck me if it meant he could retake the Throne.”

Sansa gasped, eyes horrified, while Arya just sat up straighter, angrily spitting out, “Not much of a fucking brother, I’d say.”

“That’s true.” Dany looked down, feeling that bite of betrayal yet again, that sharp twist in her chest. “I grew to love Drogo in the end, in a fashion. He raped me for months before I learned that I could take some power for myself, that I could use what I possessed as a woman to make him care for me, to win this army and it’s might for myself.”

Sansa’s eyes were hard now, and there was a glimmer of something, perhaps of shared experience – Dany knew what Ramsay Bolton had done to Jon’s sister, here in her own home. But Sansa hadn’t had the opportunity to take power back on her own, as Dany had, for surely Ramsay was a monster of the sort Drogo never had been.

Sansa rose slowly, her breath a bit shaky as she came to sit beside Dany on the bench. “Sometimes that is our only option. As women, I mean. We must find whatever power we can grasp and take it for ourselves.” Dany nodded, certain that she understood the redhead now. For a monster Ramsay Bolton might have been, but Jon and Sansa had fought that monster and taken back their home. And Jon had let Sansa dispose of Ramsay in a most deserving fashion.

“Yes. All three of us, here, we have fought our own monsters. And we have survived. We have found our own power where we must, and made ourselves all the stronger for it.” Dany smiled, then, as they all shared a glance amongst them. “I know your brother is very proud of you. Both of you. He spoke of you endlessly on the journey from Dragonstone.”

Sansa gave a chuckle, and Dany was relieved that she seemed to be relaxing a bit, some of the wariness leaving her eyes as she looked at the Dragon Queen. “I was a bit nervous, I will admit, when I heard you were accompanying Jon. Sometimes he can be too trusting, too quick to believe everyone’s intentions are as noble as his own, even when he has been shown nothing of the sort in his own experiences. He is far too *good* for his own good, at times.”

Arya snorted. “Sansa was worried he was going to give the North to you because you bewitched him with your beauty.”

Danaerys raised a hand as Sansa made to refute her sister’s words. “You have experienced far too much betrayal by too many people known to you. I cannot fault you for not placing your trust in a stranger. But perhaps you underestimate your brother. He was quite stubborn and quite clear that he would NOT be bending the knee when he came to Dragonstone. I tried, believe me.” Dany laughed. “It wasn’t until your former husband’s reckless plan, Lady Sansa, that I saw the Night King’s Army for myself, that I believed your brother. There were so many. So many it was impossible to count.” 

“You saw them?” Arya seemed deeply troubled. It struck Daenerys that there might be only a few, even here in the North, that had seen the massive army of the dead. They were preparing solely on the trust they placed in Jon that the danger was real, and coming right for them.

“I did. It was terrifying. I brought my dragons to save them, and lost one in the battle. And your brother, that stupid brave man, he somehow managed to save himself. It was only then, Lady Sansa, that your brother even offered to bend the knee, because I had proven to him that I would risk myself and my armies for the North.” Dany drew in a breath then, pushing on before Sansa could interrupt. “And it was then I realized that I no longer wanted him to.”

Sansa sat very still, eyes seeming to read everything on Dany’s face. “You’re in love with him.”

“I fear it was your brother who bewitched me, in the end, not the other way around. It was impossible not to love him by then, and far too late to do anything to stop it.” All Daenerys could do was give the sisters a half-hearted smile and wait for their judgment.

“I bloody knew it! Oh, I saw the way you looked at him *Daenerys*, but at the very least he seems to feel the same way, yeah?” Arya collapsed back from her sitting position to lay on the ground, laughing.

“Hmmmm. Yes, he does, I think.” Sansa nodded. “He’s absolutely dreadful at hiding things, and even worse at lying. You two wouldn’t have been able to keep that hidden for long. But,” Jon’s sister paused, reaching out and placing a hand on Dany’s forearm softly, “I thank you for telling us the truth.”

Arya stood now, having recovered her wits. “Let’s get moving, there’s more to see than this bloody garden you know.”

Dany rose along with Sansa, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That, at least, had gone better than she expected.

\--------------------------

Arya stomped ahead through the snow of the Dragon Queen and the Lady of Winterfell, like a pack mule clearing a path. Sansa had linked her arm through Daenerys’s once again, and Dany found she rather liked it. She’d never had this feeling, of belonging, of family. It was nicer than she’d dared to hope.

“Tell me, Lady Sansa. What was your brother like when he was young?” Dany had found her curiosity rising as Jon’s sisters had shown her the home Jon had grown up in, and in every place she’d toured with them she found herself trying to picture him there.

Sansa bit out a laugh, breath puffing out in the cold air of the Godswood. “Well, I suppose like he is now, just smaller.” Dany had to chuckle at that, picturing that brooding King with the sad eyes who’d entered her throne room as a brooding body with sad eyes, moping about.

Sansa sighed and drew to a stop. “My mother hated Jon, you know. I didn’t realize why, until later on, til I’d grown up enough to realize that she hated him because of what he meant. That my father had been unfaithful to her then forced her to live with the reminder every day. I understand why, but now, looking back, it makes me very sad for him. We weren’t always kind to him, my siblings and I.”

“I was!” Arya called back over her shoulder.

“What I remember of Jon the most, as a girl, was that he tried to stay out of sight, away from my mother’s attention. So he was always well-behaved, always helpful, always trying to keep everyone from doing something we’d get in trouble for.” Sansa let out an undignified snort. “I suppose you could say Jon was disgustingly good, even then.”

Dany knew that, of course. She and Jon had spoken at length about their childhoods, but of course Jon’s sisters still didn’t know *why* Ned Stark had brought Jon home. She was tempted to tell them, here, in private, but stilled her tongue. Jon should tell them, not this foreign Queen they’d just met.

“So he never misbehaved? Never did anything he wasn’t supposed to?” She couldn’t say why she pressed, just that she wanted to know all of him, even that part of him that only his sisters knew, childhood memories and remembrances of the past.

Arya stood ahead, considering. “He used to sneak some meat pies every now and then, when he’d take Bran and I to go out riding. But even then I don’t really think he stole them, Old Nan had a bit of a soft spot for him and I think she gave him extras when no one was looking.”

Sansa agreed, nodding her head. “She did. She’d make him little fruit pies because he used to sweep up in the kitchen for her when her back was acting up.” 

Dany just shook her head. “Surely there’s something.”

Sansa’s eyes snapped to hers then, and grew large. “Well…” her voiced trailed off uncertainly. “There is *one* thing.” 

Arya immediately closed the distance, sensing a secret to be uncovered. “Out with it, Sansa.”

“Oh Gods.” Sansa covered her eyes with her free hand. “I’d forgotten all about it. Oh, Jon will be *furious* with me if I tell it.” Now she covered her mouth with hand, giving in to a fit of laughter.

Arya’s eyes flashed. “Sansa, for once please stop drawing things out and tell me. Tell us what he did. It must be good or you’d have already spilled it.”

“Come on then, follow me.” Sansa looked around as if checking to see if anyone was around to overhear, then walked deeper into the woods, towards the massive heart tree at it’s center.

“You must understand that Theon and Robb loved to mess about with Jon. Robb and Jon had been very close, you see, but then when Theon came to foster with us it changed things. They left Jon out a lot, and Theon especially liked to try to trick Jon into doing things for their amusement.” Sansa approached the heart tree, hands primly in front of her. “And you should also know that I didn’t witness this myself, Robb told me years after.”

Arya exploded then. “Sansa, GET ON WITH IT!”

Dany felt a bit of the same, desperate to hear the tale of the one time Honest Jon had done something wrong.

“Fine! Alright, well, Robb said when they were 11 or so he and Theon had come up with a bit of a joke to play on Jon. Their favorite thing was to trick him into doing something naughty but promising that they would do it, too. Then they couldn’t tell on each other, you see, because they’d all have done it.” Sansa began to giggle. “Well, for a long time I guess they couldn’t convince him. I’m sure he was afraid of getting caught, because he would have been in much worse trouble than Robb or Theon.” Sansa moved now, sitting on a massive root and motioning for them to sit as well.

“So, they finally talked him into something. And of course, remember, they swore they would *all* do it. But they wanted Jon to go first. So they dared him over and over until finally Theon got Jon’s dander up enough that he agreed.”

Arya was spellbound now. “What was it?”

Sansa started laughing, too hard to speak at first. “They dared him to take a piss on the Heart Tree. *This* Heart Tree, where Father sharpened his sword. And when he did, they ran off. Robb said Jon started crying, immediately, because Theon told him he was cursed now for desecrating something holy to the Old Gods.”

“Those shits!” Arya barely managed to choke out around great heaving bouts of laughter, slipping down off the root she’d perched on and laying in the snow. “Poor Jon, I bet he believed it too.”

Dany had lost her battle with her own laughter by now, and her chest was tight with the ache to breathe, but it was almost impossible between the very undignified howls that consumed her. Oh, just picturing poor Jon, it shouldn’t be so funny to her she supposed but she was as caught up in the amusement of it as his sisters were.

“That’s not the worst part!” Sansa was gasping now, tears streaming down her face in her glee. “They started calling him the Godswood Bandit, and every time they said it he’d storm off. For *years* after! That’s what made me ask Robb in the first place, I didn’t understand why it bothered him so!” Sansa clutched at Dany’s arm now, gripping her and getting her attention. “Oh, you *can’t* tell him I told you, he’d be so embarrassed!”

“No, I swear it, I promise I won’t!” Dany was hiccupping now, so much laughter making her diaphragm seize. She felt something then that she’d never felt, wasn’t sure she’d ever laughed so hard, except perhaps with Missendai. There hadn’t been much in her life so far to laugh about, in truth. This, she supposed, must be what families do. She hungered for it, for this feeling of…was it togetherness? Belonging? She wasn’t sure. She was loathe to end it, but daylight was fading and if they didn’t return for their evening meal soon the Godswood Bandit himself would be pacing about searching for her.

Sansa must have realized the same, as she stood and brushed off her skirts. “We’d better head back, I suppose.” She turned to Dany and Arya, who rose as well and cleaned off the snow that had clung to them. “This is our secret now, Daenerys Targaryen, agreed?”

She hooked her arm out and Dany took it, gladly. “Agreed.”

Arya shot off ahead of them and Sansa simply shook her head as they followed her, the dark-haired girl’s voice carrying in the slight cold wind. “I make no promises, Sansa!”

\-------------------------

The three had maintained their composure, entering the Great Hall to find the others had already assembled. Jon stood as he saw them, shaking his head as all three entered, smiling. “This doesn’t look good. Not at all.”

He pulled out the seat beside him, and Daenerys took it, thanking him and giving him a quick smile. 

“What doesn’t, brother?” Dany was amazed that Sansa could manage such an innocent voice. Jon pulled her seat out for her as well, and then returned to his own.

“Not you. Not Daenerys. It’s Arya.” Jon pointed down to the end of the table where Arya had made herself a place, straddling a stool and being altogether unladylike as she started heaping food on her plate. “If Arya’s smiling then someone’s up to no good.”

“How very cynical of you, brother.” Arya shoveled a huge bite into her mouth, chewing as she watched the rest of the group begin to make their own plates from the platters of food along the table. 

“What did you do, Arya?” Jon pointed a fork at his sister. “I know that look.”

Arya merely shrugged, taking a long drink from her ale then wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

“It’s not what I did, Jon.” She waited a beat, Jon rolling his eyes to Dany as he took a bite of his food. “It’s what the Godswood Bandit did.”

Dany held her breath, watching Jon as his sisters did the same. He grew very, very still. Then very slowly, he brought his hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose while he leaned his elbow on the table. She leaned her head closer and heard him start to whisper, lowly at first then increasing in volume, “Ohhhhh no. Oh, no no no. No, no, no, oh gods.” Without looking up, he whisperbarked to the Lady of Winterfell, who sat silently, shoulders shaking to keep from laughing out loud, “Oh, Sansa. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t. Oh, how could you, please tell me you didn’t tell the Queen *that story*.”

Dany wasn’t sure if it was the look of utter dismay in Jon’s profile, as he refused to look up at anyone, or the combined looks of glee on Arya’s face and amusement but a bit of chagrin on Sansa’s but in totality it created an avalanche of mirth inside her that bubbled up and out and into the air, and she had to push her plate forward to lay her head in her arms on the table, helpless to stop the laughter that fought it’s way out.

She glanced a look at Jon, then, who tilted his head slightly to mutter “Dany, you traitor.” and she was at it again. It was like her game with him, where she’d embarrass him with her forwardness late at night, but better in a way. It did not heal the ache in her to have him and touch him and taste him, but sharing this with his sisters made her feel…a part of something. One of the family.

Dany watched him swiftly eat what remained on his plate and rise, chair scraping.

With a huff in his voice, he briskly bade them farewell. “Well, hopefully I’ve been enough entertainment for you lot this evening.”

Sansa spoke up then, laughter trailing off as she wiped beneath her eyes. “No, Jon, come back. I’m sorry, please, don’t leave.” She betrayed the sentiment by immediately giggling again.

“I’m off to check on Bran and Samwell. Perhaps the men in my home will allow to me to keep a bit of my dignity.” He walked towards the end of the hall, throwing open the doors and disappearing.

Davos leaned down, then, the rest of the group having watching the entire exchange while continuing their meals. “Any of you ladies want to let the rest of us in on the joke, perhaps?”

“I’m sorry, Ser Davos, we can’t.” Arya looked like she might actually be a bit sorry, but then she kicked Dany’s foot lightly under the table, catching her eye. “Family secret.”

The Dragon Queen was familiar with not showing her emotions. It was an art she liked to think she had mastered over the course of her life. But there was a catch in her chest, then, and she could only nod mutely in return to Arya, hoping that if her eyes appeared glassy they wouldn’t notice.

\---------------------

“Where are you taking me?” Dany was puzzled, she still hadn’t been to see her rooms, yet, and the hour was approaching for the residents of Winterfell to be abed. She also still needed to find out where to find Jon’s room, but it seemed an indelicate question to ask his sisters, even if they’d spent the day together now, and seemed a bit more comfortable in each other’s company.

“Stop worrying, Daenerys. It’s a surprise, I promise you’ll like it.” Arya dragged her down the wall by the hand, with Sansa trailing behind her.

“I’d watch her if I were you, your Grace, she might be taking you to see her bloody bag of faces.” Sansa grimaced at her, but Dany just laughed and turned back to face forward, continuing this odd procession down the hall. She’d seen stranger things.

“Not today I’m not.” Arya brought them to a halt in front of a large door, shushing them as she knocked.

“Enter!” A voice called out, a voice Dany knew very well, a voice Dany was past ready to be quite alone with.

“Hello, brother, we’ve brought you a peace offering.” Arya entered first, followed by Sansa, with Daenerys coming in last and closing the door.

Jon sat behind a large, stately desk beside the window. Judging by the array of papers spread before him, it appeared to Dany he’d been hard at it for the better part of the day. 

He looked at them all, seriously, one by one, his lips barely quirking a smile at Dany as his eyes lit upon her. He pointed the quill he’d be writing with to her. “She can stay. You two can see yourselves out.”

“Oh, Jon, I’m afraid we can’t.” He’d looked back down at what he’d been working on, but shifted his eyes up to his sister in silent protest. Sansa merely smiled. “Someone has to stay as the Queen’s chaperone, don’t you remember? That’s the rule, no unmarried boys are to have girls in their rooms after dark.”

He chucked a scrap of paper in Sansa’s direction. “Very funny, dear sister. Leave.”

Arya gasped. “But, Jon, we can’t do that! Someone must stay to safeguard the Queen’s reputation!” Arya leaned over towards Daenerys as Jon glared at his sister, but by now she could tell he was also trying to not break as well. “Daenerys…I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think my brother might have impure intentions towards you.”

“That’s it! The both of you, out, right now!” He stood and herded his sisters to the door, stopping them just before he opened it to shoo them out into the hall. “You two have had your fun, and it makes me glad that you and the Queen seem to have found common interests in taking the piss out of me, and I’ve missed you both. Truly.” He stopped then, hugging them each in turn and opening the door, pushing them none to gently out into the hall. Dany watched him lean against the door jam. “But if you even think about knocking on this door once I close it I’ll toss the both off you off the top of the Keep.” 

Dany was still smiling at the laughter that trailed after them as he shut the door. 

  
  
Chapter 11: Pawn of Prophecy  
Summary:

Jon sees Bran and Sam. Jon receives a sword. Jon is guilty of impure intentions. 

And a little Ghost! And smut! But not Ghost smut, this isn't that kind of story.

The flu has struck my house, which is great in getting to duck in a type some ideas up, but not great for trying to respond to all the awesome comments on the last chapter. If I do not manage to get to it, please know that I read them and appreciate them and they just might stop me from jumping off the roof to escape from the 15 year old and the 4 year old. :)

  
  
End Notes:

I intended a bit more plot in this chapter but the smut took over. Also, THANK YOU AGAIN to everyone leaving awesome comments and feedback, I love love love hearing your thoughts and theories and areas that could be tweaked. This has become a journey for me, and a great joy as I haven't written in some time and this process of unpacking all my most secret pet theories about this ragtag group of misfits, stirring in shit I know probably won't happen but I think *could*, and forcing these two little fiends together as much as I can while still pretending there's a story around gives me a thrill I haven't had in quite a while.

Not that kind of thrill, sickos. :)

A note, here, about Sansa before the next chapter. One thing that bothered me in general about Season 7 was the almost immediate questioning of every single choice Jon made once being named King in the North. In part, I think Jon's character at that point was still very much in the "I'm just a bastard what do I know" mindset, but throughout the Season we do see him become more comfortable in his role as a King (even though he still too risky with his body parts). I think that Sansa experienced some character growth as well, perhaps in flexing her political muscles, but we also see her realize (IMHO) by the time we see the Stark sibs hoodwink Littlefinger, that while she may not be of very trusting nature anymore, she MUST trust her family. That whole scene between she and Arya in 7 x 07 where they repeat Ned's words about pack survival *should* carry over into trusting her brother, King in the North Jon Snow, but I fear the show will have her right back into her constant second guessing, which then carries over into the bannerman. If the pack's going to survive, she's going to have to treat her brother like a King, especially in front of the North. So while it may have seemed a bit fluffy and OOC in the prior chapter as far as Sansa's interactions with Dany, I wrote their interplay with a mind to the fact that even if Sansa is tremendously wary and angry that Dany is there, she has become well versed on the niceties and intricacies of politics. Even if she wanted to murder Daenerys, she would have to recognize that Dany was not asking for the North in exchange, and the oft-overlooked fact that you can't just be an asshole to someone with enormous dragons and huge armies and would be welcoming and polite.

Next chapter - Sansa and Arya learn the truth, Gendry and Arya reunite, and Tyrion gains an ally.

  
  


Jon felt an odd wave of satisfaction, watching his sisters leave with Daenerys, the image almost more of a dream than reality. Gods, Arya had grown. He almost hadn’t recognized her, she wasn’t the little girl with the gaps in her teeth and the dirty face he’d said farewell to when he was 17. She was nearly the age he’d been when he left, now, and it struck him hard how much time had swept by now, for all of them.

He supposed he felt a bit bad for lying to them all, but he wanted to do this next bit himself. Davos had told him that Bran, that little mountain goat who’d been scaling towers, the lad who’d been unconscious in his bed when he kissed him on the forehead before Lady Catelyn had ordered him out, was different now. He’d already heard, first from Brienne of Tarth at the Dragon Pit, and then from Wyman Manderly before he’d departed from White Harbor, that Bran could see things. Bran could know things. And now, Bran was in his chambers, waiting for his brother the King.

Jon looked back to Tyrion, who was speaking to one of the Winterfell stable masters, probably trying to ascertain where in the bloody hells Daenerys’s Dothraki horselords were to put their mounts. They were skilled riders, true enough, and deadly savage in a battle, but neither they nor they steeds were used to the sort of climate they were in now, and Jon knew they’d need to make sure there were enough supplies to maintain their numbers and protect against illness and infirmity.

Jon waited their conversation ceased, then waved Tyrion over. “My Lord, I would speak with you for a moment. Would you walk with me?”

Tyrion nodded, looking a bit unsure but stopping to give instructions before joining the King in the North as he walked towards one of the great doors that led into the Keep.

“Tyrion. I know you are used to a political battle, but I need to make sure you understand something. The Northern Lords assemble in one week’s time, and I know it pains you that Dany wishes me to remain King in the North, but these Lords…”

Tyrion interrupted. “These Lords will not respect another Southern Queen marching into their homes and demanding they bow to her. I know, your Grace. She had the right of it, I saw it myself with Lord Manderly. Perhaps I didn’t spend enough time in the North when we last found ourselves here, together.” Tyrion gave a tilt of his lips. “Northerners trust people who have proven themselves to be good to their word. That requires action. But have you considered that even though the Queen has brought her armies, and her dragons, and returned their King to them in *almost* the state he was when he left, they may still refuse to accept it? Her aid?”

Jon stopped in the stone hall, ducking into an open archway and waiting for Tyrion to follow him. “Oh, I’ve considered it, Lord Hand. I’ve considered the fact that some of these lords were hard-headed and stubborn enough to sit out the battle the last time I called on them, the battle to take back my home from the monsters they watched take it in the first place. They call themselves Northerners, true, but they are as stuck in their own political games and grudges as any Southerner.”

Tyrion cocked his head. “So, King in the North, what will you do? If your Lords refuse to accept aid from Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? What then?”

Jon felt a hot anger course through him. He hoped these stubborn fools would see reason, but this was not the time for political games, this was not the time to fuck about and be too proud to accept every man, woman, and child willing to fight for the living. 

“I will tell them to leave. To go home and wait out this war in their Keeps, my Lord.” Jon watched Tyrion’s face cycle from surprised to cynical.

“And?”

“And I will tell them they better pray we lose. They’d better pray the fate that awaits them is to have their own keeps and homes and families overrun with dead men, they’d better pray their fate is to become yet another body in the Night King’s Army. Because if we win, my Lord,” Jon wrapped a gloved hand around the hilt of his sword, gripping tight enough for the leather to creak, “I will find them. Every last craven that survives. And I will deliver Northern justice to every traitorous one of them. The North remembers, Tyrion. And so do I.”

Jon watched Tyrion swallow and process his words. “You know, King in the North,” Tyrion leaned closer so that only he would hear him, “one couldn’t be blamed in thinking that you’re becoming a bit less of a wolf and perhaps a bit more of a dragon.” He watched Tyrion smile then, a slow spread across the cheeks of the Dwarf of Casterly Rock.

He gave Tyrion back a ghost of a smile. “Perhaps I’m just becoming what I was always mean to be, my Lord. Both, in one.” He clapped Tyrion on the back, enough to sway the man’s body, in farewell.

“I’ll take my leave, now. See to the horselords and Unsullied, I’ve got to go see my brother.”

\--------------------------

Jon knocked on the door, trepidation building as he prepared himself for what might lay beyond it.

“Come in.”

Bran’s voice was monotone, emotionless, and Jon slowly swung the door open, seeing his brother sitting before the fire. Bran was taller now, he could tell, even in the wheeled chair he sat in. They’d been right. That little boy was gone. Bran’s head turned, and he looked at Jon silently, then a hint of a smile crossed his features.

“Jon. You’re home. I saw you, on the road. I told Samwell Tarly you would be arriving soon…with Daenerys Targaryen.” Jon looked in the direction Bran pointed as he spoke, and there, sitting awkwardly with several books spread around him was the man himself. Sam didn’t look much different to Jon’s eyes, face still a bit rounded and boyish, but it was hard to take in much more of him as the chubby man rose from the chair and hurried over, sweeping Jon in a hug that he returned. 

“Sam! You’re here! It’s good to see you, friend, but I thought I sent you to the Citadel?” Sam released him and gestured to the books before them. 

“Oh, I went. I’m sad to report that the Maesters of the Citadel do not put much stock in tales of White Walkers and the Night King.” Sam’s eyes were somber, and he traced a page with his finger. “And they would not be swayed.”

Jon walked to the table, eyes scanning the scattered tomes and pages of notes. “But they let you take the books, at least?”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes darted about a bit. “Well….perhaps let is a strong word.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at his dearest friend’s distress. “Sam,” he whispered, “did you *steal* these books?”

Sam hummed noncommittally, straightening the pages to keep his fidgeting hands busy. “I wouldn’t say I stole them. I *would* say I borrowed them. Without permission.” The would-be Maester’s voice trailed up at the end.

Now Jon laughed loudly, Sam’s unease easing as he chuckled along with him. “Ahh, Sam, I knew there was a devious heart in there somewhere. And Gilly? And Little Sam?”

“They’re here too, your sister was kind enough to find some rooms for us.” Jon nodded, glad to hear that Sansa had been accommodating to them.

“Jon.” Bran’s flat voice ended the conversation, and Jon turned to look at his brother again, and then approached him, crouching down to be eye level with this stranger who wore his brother’s face. As he looked at Bran, he saw his features soften, just a bit, and leaned in to hug him tight. No matter what they had all become since they’d last parted, he couldn’t help but think that Ned Stark would be proud of how they’d all managed to survive and find their way back home.

“It’s good to see you, Bran. I’ve missed you.” Jon waited, pulling back, willing his brother to show something, some recognition that he was still the boy he remembered in there, somewhere.

“I missed you as well, Jon. But I have seen you, I have seen your journey. I have been watching you for some time.” Jon wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“What do you mean?”

It was Sam who answered. “Bran has…visions, Jon. He says he became the Three-Eyed Raven, when he journeyed beyond the wall. He can see things happening now, things that happened long ago.”

“I see everything, Jon.” Bran looked over to the window, towards a low table set in front of it. “Get that bundle there, and bring it here to me.”

Jon did as he was asked, picking up the bundle of furs and noting it had some weight to it, there was something wrapped inside it. He carried it over to Bran and lay it across his brother’s lap.

“Open it, Jon.” Jon looked at Bran, for confirmation, and did, revealing a grimy, dirty sword. It was finely wrought, Jon noticed, and through the layers of ancient looking dirt and staining he saw a familiar ripple. Valyrian Steel.

“Do you know the name of this sword, Jon?” Jon looked it over, but it didn’t resemble any Valyrian Steel sword he’d ever seen. As he looked at the pommel, though, he noticed the metallic carvings flanking the grip. It was hard to clearly make out what it was through the tarnish that had built up over the ages.

“No, Bran.” Jon paused. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Bran motioned down to the sword, gesturing for Jon to take it. “It is called Dark Sister.”

Jon breathed out slowly, lifting the sword gently in both hands to examine it’s lines and shape. It was intricately crafted, he saw, even more so than he’d originally thought. His eyes examined the carved figures and he realized what House this particular Valyrian steel belonged to as it dawned on him that those figures on either side were flames.

“This sword belongs to House Targaryen.” It was a whisper but it seemed to fill the room. Jon tore his eyes from the blade to see both Bran and Sam watching him closely.

“Your house, Jon.” It hit him that they knew, somehow, what he had just learned about himself. 

“One of my houses, Bran. I am a Stark as well, a trueborn one, but if you know who my father was then you know full well who my mother was.” Jon placed the sword back on Bran’s lap, letting out a sigh. “You have seen that as well, I take it.”

“Yes. I saw Father arrive, the day you were born in that tower in Dorne. Aunt Lyanna was already dying, lying in a bed of blood by the time he reached her. She begged him to take you, to hide you, to protect you.” This was a picture Jon hadn’t been expecting, an image forming in his mind that brought a lump to his throat. Every day that had passed since he’d learned the truth, he’d developed a newfound respect for Eddard Stark, who’d risked the safety of his family for Jon’s entire life to keep Jon safe. He’d endured the long-festered anger of his lady wife to keep Jon there, in Winterfell. And he’d done all this, Jon realized, because of a promise he made to his dying sister.

“I appreciate your honesty, Bran, and that you both wanted me to know the truth. But we must keep this to ourselves, for now. I’ll not risk dividing the North right before I need our armies united with the Targaryen forces to fight the Night King.”

Sam nodded, wiping his hands down the front of the belted tunic he’d worn. Jon realized he must have been exceedingly nervous.

“This sword is yours, Jon. Take it. You have fought with Longclaw well, but you must bear sword and shield for this battle. The Night King is unlike any other you have faced, and you will need every tool possible at your disposal.” Bran cut his eyes over at Jon, and looked a tiny bit like that sly little Bran who liked to climb and spy and chase about. “Even your dragon.”

Samwell gasped. “You have a dragon, Jon?”

Jon just smiled. “I’ll show you later, if you like.” He turned to Bran, wrapping the sword back in the fur pelts and placing it on the table and addressing his brother fully. “Tell me what you’ve seen, Bran. All of it. If I’m to prepare the living to fight, I need to know exactly what we’re up against.”

\---------------------

Jon closed the door behind his still-laughing sisters and turned back to face Daenerys, who had claimed his now vacated seat behind his desk and was still smiling. He took a moment just to look at her, to capture in his mind the image of the most beautiful girl in all the realms, there in his room. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to it; That she was his, and he was hers, and he could touch her and kiss her and she welcomed it, she craved it as much as he did.

He smirked at her. “I take it my sisters didn’t scare you off, then.”

Dany laughed, coming over to wrap her arms around his neck and place a kiss below his jaw. “They are a bit intimidating. But they were most welcoming, I assure you.”

Jon gasped slightly as she dipped her head a bit lower, biting lightly into the skin of his neck as she used her body to press him against the door. He brought a hand up, wrapping it into the hair at the back of her head and cradling it in his palm. He tilted her face to meet his, eyes locking together, heat thrumming through him.

“I must warn you, I do have impure intentions where you are concerned.” She giggled and nipped at his lip with a sharp grab of her teeth. Jon couldn’t ignore the hunger that raced through his heart and straight into his cock, and he dove for her mouth, exploring the seam of her lips until she parted, slicking his tongue against hers until she moaned for him.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down and behind her ear, stopping to lick at her earlobe before sucking at the skin where her jaw met the soft sweet skin of her neck. 

“How impure?” she managed to gasp out.

He chuckled into her collar bone, running his tongue along the sharp line, lips exploring the skin exposed by the woolen coat and tunic she’d worn. Not nearly enough skin for Jon’s liking, but that was a problem with an extremely quick solution.

“Oh, Dany, very impure, I’m afraid.” He brought his hands to the catch of her jacket, stripping it from her back and down her arms, tossing it recklessly and tracing his fingers around the lower curve of a breast. She arched her back for him languidly, pressing her hips back into him and leaning into his touch.

“You’ll be glad to learn that those are my *most* favorite kind of intentions, where you are concerned.” Her voice was purr as she slid a hand down his chest, moving her lower body away from his only to bring her hand into contact with the full length of him. He let out a groan, eyes rolling back a bit from the sheer relief and pleasure of her touch, there, after two weeks of only sampling her lips when they could snatch a spare moment on the road.

“You’d better move your hand or my intentions will be extremely short-lived.”

Dany took mercy on him, thankfully, bringing her hands back up and kissing him fiercely, her lips and tongue communicating her hunger for him, as well. He brought an arm around her back, bringing her body back into his to press fully against him, sliding his palm down to thumb at the hard peak of her nipple as his fingers swept around the shape of her. She moaned into his mouth, tongue spearing against his, lips becoming frantic as she pulled her body back enough to tear at his shirt, pulling it free at his waist and pressing her palms against his abdomen, sliding up and scratching him lightly with her nails, just enough pressure to enflame him.

“Right, then. Let me give you a tour, as my guest.” Jon picked her up at the waist, pinning her to his body with a forearm behind her back and sliding his hand up and around her buttocks to encourage her thighs to wrap around him. He walked her over to his bed, disengaging her body from his and dropping her back against the sheets and heavy blankets. Jon crawled above her, holding his body up to hover over her. “This is my bed, Dany. That’s the end of the tour.” He brought his hands down to the hem of her tunic, sliding it up and over her as she raised her upper body for him as she laughed.

Jon would have said more, he thought, but the skin he’d exposed called him like a moth to a flame. He kissed his way down and around her breasts, purposefully avoiding the hard, pink tips of her nipples as she shifted around, trying to bring herself in contact with his mouth, giving him a whining, “Jon!” as he denied her the wet haven of his lips and tongue where she desperately wanted it.

She brought her hands to his head, trying to draw him down to her forcefully, but he took her wrists in a hand, pinning them above her head as he brought his face to hers. “Oh, no. You aren’t going to rush me this time, love. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.” She gave another plaintive moan as he dragged his lips down her neck, flicking his tongue out to taste her, tease her.

Daenerys struggled in his grip as he finally brought one dusky tip in his mouth, giving her the heat of his mouth and a flick of his tongue before he pulled away again. Her back arched sharply, following his mouth up. “You dreadful tease, Jon Snow, this is no way to treat your guest.” She fought harder to free her arms and he tightened his grip slightly, bringing his mouth to her ear. 

“Am I hurting you?”

She panted into his mouth as he brought his face back to hers, waiting ‘til his eyes met hers to give him a thoroughly predatory look. “Don’t you dare let go of my hands.”

He grinned wolfishly in return, moving back down to tend to the breast he’d neglected, suckling and nipping her sensitive flesh with his teeth as she gave a wail and pressed against him desperately. Jon stretched down, dipping his tongue into her navel as she writhed and using his free hand to fight the breeches and smallclothes she wore. He stripped them down her legs, the task a bit more troublesome with one hand, but she shifted her hips to assist him.

Jon had to let her go then, he had to, because his hands had a mind of their own at this point, sliding down her sides, her heated flesh warming his even more as he ran them down her hips and along her thighs. He sat up then, stripping of his shirt and stepping out of his breeches, then crawled back onto the bed, between legs she’d immediately parted. Jon leaned down, licking and biting at her inner thighs, desire flaring even higher as she brought her hands to her breasts, moaning and leaning her head back in anticipation of where she knew he intended to taste her next.

He bracketed her hips with his hands, holding her down to the bed and sliding the tip of his tongue through her wet center, the sight of her teasing herself and the taste of her making him angle his hips against the bed, dying for friction against his stiff, swollen cock but unwilling to find completion until he’d had his fill of her. Jon gave her a long, slow lick with the flat of his tongue, from her soaked core to the swollen nub at her crest. He hummed a response as she cried out, back stiffening and curving and her hips arching up into his mouth. He gave her a few stiff thrusts of his tongue before swirling it back up to flick at the bud above, circling it as she called his name in a series of broken cries. Gods, she was so close, he could feel it coiling inside her, and it only took a few moments of lips and tongue, suckling wetly, and she was arcing off the blankets, fingers plucking at her nipples as her hips danced and pulsed above him. He let go as she came down, soothing her with slow, gentle licks as she flopped back on to the bed.

Jon leaned his face against her thigh, gathering himself and trying to calm himself down a bit, feeling as if he would spend the minute her found himself inside her. He felt her hand then, on his cheek as she turned his face to look at her, then gave her a grin when she smiled in a satisfied manner and crooked a finger at him, beckoning him up her body.

“Come here, King in the North.”

He settled his lower body against her, sighing in relief as his cock was finally pressed against her wet slick center, thrusting up against her and letting out a growl as she ran her tongue up his jugular and he braced himself above her on his arms.

“Oh, Jon. Please, I need you inside me. It’s like it’s been forever.” She ran a hand between their bodies, grasping his thick length and pumping him with her hand, her grip firm and sliding and making him breathless. He felt her positioning him and thrust up firmly as soon as he felt her opening, groaning loudly with her as her snug walls held him like a fist.

“Dany!” His breath caught in his throat as she bit into his neck at the base, as though she were marking him. He felt his control slip away as he thrust roughly into her, sliding a hand down her leg to her calf and bringing it up to his shoulder. The change in angle made her gasp, and he felt her tighten further as he brought a hand down to circle his thumb around her once more. He thrust harder, forcefully, glorying in the feel of driving into her so completely, the heat of her intense around him and he never wanted it to end, wanted to live in a world where this was all there was, where they could just consume each other endlessly and hells to all the rest of it.

He was thankful as he felt her start to flutter around him, feeling himself about to fly out into the abyss, losing himself in the slide and flame and grip of her as she peaked again, hands coming up to rake her nails down his back and dig into his flesh as her head snapped back. She was shouting, now, in a language he didn’t know but relished the sound of coming from her lips, throaty and pitched and absurdly arousing to him. Jon couldn’t stop himself then, the sound and the feel of her driving him headlong into his own release as he moaned into her neck, pumping until he was completely spent but staying inside her, reluctant to break this connection to her but finally pulling free to sprawl at her side. He lay on his stomach, catching his breath and looking at her as she did the same, on her back with her head tilted toward him.

Jon toyed with the ends of her moonlight hair, bringing it up to tickle at her nose before she swatted his hand away and curled up against him.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Daenerys Stormborn.”

She pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, her eyes adoring as she lay her head back down to gaze at him, eyes level with each other as their breathing normalized.

“Did you have a good day, Dany?” Her eyes grew warm and soft at his whispered question.

“I did. I’m sorry for teasing you.”

Jon laughed. “I wasn’t upset. I just played along to give them what they wanted.” 

Daenerys smiled, cupping his cheek. “What a good brother you are.”

“In all fairness, you should know that part of the reason I wasn’t upset is that I did eventually get Robb and Theon back for their terrible torture of me.” Jon leaned up on his elbow, absently trailing his fingers down her back as he admitted, at her questioning look, “Years later…Gods we must have been 15 or so, about a year before we all left home. Robb and Theon were both chasing after some minor Lord’s daughter, going down to the village to strut about and show off. Every week, on the same day. So I got up very early one morning, knowing they would be making their weekly trip, and shoved pig shit into their riding boots out in the stables. Not enough that they’d feel it through their socks, but by the time they made it back home they were in a sore mood. Apparently girls had been avoiding all day, wrinkling their noses and such, and they didn’t figure out why ‘til they got back to the stables and shucked off those boots.” He snickered, leaning over conspiratorially to whisper, “They blamed Arya for it.”

Dany laughed, shoulders shaking. “You let her take the blame?”

Jon shrugged. “Now that you’ve met her you’ll understand when I say that, even if she hadn’t done that, she’d probably done something worse that they didn’t even know about yet.” He sat up then, as Daenerys nodded her agreement, and pulled down the bedcoverings beneath them to bring them up and over her body. She snuggled under the blankets, laying her head down on a pillow and raising the blankets with an arm for him to cocoon himself in their warmth with her.

Jon was just getting comfortable, extending an arm beneath her neck and bringing her head to his shoulder, when a mighty scratching came from the door.

Dany popped up, delighted, and he groaned as she pulled on his tunic and practically raced to the door. “Ghost!” Jon watched as the direwolf stuck his head through the now open door, forcing it wider with his body as he brought himself in to the room. He paced over to the bed where Jon still lay, a hand extended out to slide over the wolf’s fur.

Ghost gave him a cursory sniff and leaned his head into Jon’s hand, then swung around and made a beeline for Dany, following her around to the other side of the bed. He tracked the wolf with curiosity as she climbed back in, watching the massive white wolf plant himself beside the bed, bringing his great head down into the blankets and giving Dany a pitiful whine.

“Oh, you great baby. Where have you been? Out playing with the dragons?” He rolled his eyes as Dany practically cooed at Jon’s wolf, this faithful friend who’d ripped apart men before his eyes, and watched as he licked at her hand before closing his eyes, seeming to delight in her scratches and pets to his head and behind his ears.

“He’s going to absolutely worthless in a fight now.” Jon sat up, looking at Ghost who’d opened his eyes back up as he’d sensed the motion. “You’re getting soft, you silly fool.”

Ghost just chuffed at him, giving Dany’s hand one last lick before crossing the room to lay before the fire, circling several times before wrapping his tail around himself and settling in to sleep.

She crawled back into the circle of his arms, and he hugged her against him, savoring the warmth of her skin and the sweet smell of her hair. He drifted back as he closed his eyes, remembering the hours he’d spent with Bran and Sam, talk of prophecies and legends and fate and destiny. He still wasn’t sure he believed in all of it, that he was just a pawn of the Gods fashioned to be their weapon to destroy the monstrous evil the Children of the Forest had brought about with their magic. But if he was…if the entire course of his life to this point, all the shit and misery and loneliness and loss had served to test him and temper him, make him fit for this fight…the thought gave him hope where it once might have rendered him hopeless and despondent. Old Gods, New Gods, the Lord of Light…whoever they were, they’d surely known that he’d need something to fight for, something to return to, something to make his life something he fought to keep. And surely no God would be cruel enough to take him away from the woman he held in his arms, the woman who carried a life inside her that they’d created together…no God would be cruel enough to make him their champion then rob him of the chance to look upon the face of his child.

So he could not help but keep that spark of hope that he’d fostered since he realized he was in love with her, since he’d seen the sort of Queen she would be, the truth of who she was deep down. That little spark burned brighter every day now, that maybe this was the reason he’d been brought back after all. Not just to destroy the Night King, but to be at her side. To be her King. To be strong for her, to fight for her, to protect her. Right here, wrapped in his blankets, in the Keep he’d grown up in, Daenerys Stormborn in his arms…that was home. That, he would protect until there was no breath left in his body.

\-------------

Bonus Scene - Daenerys Dreams of Wolves

The Dragon Queen found herself wandering, lost, through the abandoned halls of Winterfell. It was cold, so worryingly cold, and her breath seemed to freeze on every exhale. She walked through the courtyard, calling out Jon's name, suddenly desperate to find him as fear grew inside of her.

She caught a movement in her peripheral vision. Yes, there, the flash of something slipping through an entry. Perhaps it was Ghost, she thought, wanting the protection and warmth Jon's wolf would provide, perhaps leading her back to the safety of her arms. Daenerys followed the trail, ducking through an archway and down. There was another kind of chill here, as she descended. She felt as though she was trespassing. She went down another level, and another, leaving the stairs at another flash of white movement down the tunnel ahead of her.

She walked slowly, hugging her arms to herself as she looked, her footsteps echoing loudly. Stone faces on either watched her, and she felt as though they did not want her here. This was not somewhere she belonged. She quickened her pace, sparing few glances as the stone busts became more illuminated. There were candles ahead, lit at a statuary. She saw a figure standing before it, looking up at the carved face. It was a woman of dark hair, and for a moment Dany thought perhaps it was Arya. She wore a simple white shift, sleeveless, and did not turn to look at the Mother of Dragons as she drew close.

"Arya?" She heard her voice shaking, fear focusing itself in her stomach as she realized this woman's hair was longer than Jon's sister's.

"No, Daenerys Targaryen." The woman's voice was calm, soothing and Dany felt her shoulders ease just a bit. "Give me your hand, girl."

Daenerys was hesitant, but she didn't feel anything ominous in the request, placing her hand in the woman's cold gentle grip as she wondered why the woman wouldn't look at her. She simply stood, holding Dany's hand, looking up at the statue. The Mother of Dragons followed the woman's gaze, realizing it was a carving of a girl, a maid, laid to rest here in Winterfell's crypts.

"You must bring him here. Bring him to me. My brother left things here, for this very moment, for this very battle. Jon must know. There are things he must yet learn." The woman finally turned her face and Daenerys realized who she was. Those were Jon's eyes, Jon's lips, the turn of Jon's nose.

"Lyanna."

She turned her body then, finally facing them to each other, and Daenerys let out a gasp at the blood that stained the front of her dress. "You must take care now, Daenerys. You hold the fate of the worlds inside you, the only thing that can end the Long Night that will fall upon these lands." 

Dany could feel her eyes flood, and she brought her other hand to press against the slight swell. It would be noticeable soon, she was certain of that. Nearly three months, at least.

Lyanna laid a cold hand atop hers, and raised Daenerys's chin. "Your babe will live. 4 dragons shall you bear my son. You are the restoration of House Targaryen. Guard the life inside you or none will survive. You must not fail. Jon must not fail."

"But how?" Her voice was heavy with tears she was holding back, happiness at the notion that she would carry this babe and more for the truest love she'd ever known, and terror that she would lose everything in this war.

Because this was a dream, she knew it now, and her dreams came true. 

  
  
Chapter 12: No Rest for the Weary  
Summary:

Tyrion and Sansa commiserate. Dany and Jon address that which must not be discussed. Arya has some feels and she doesn't care for that shit at all.

*Please note - This story is using show ages, not book ages, and I realized I hadn't pointed this out yet and wanted to avoid confusion :)

  
  
End Notes:

I'm alive! And posting an update! And thankfully everyone seems to be flu-free, so my apologies for the delay. Chapter 13 will be up by tomorrow, so we should be back to a regular every other day or so in getting chapters up. 

This chapter is structured a bit differently; prior to now I've been keeping to one POV per chapter, but we've got the whole gang assembled now (mostly) and I need to have more than one POV per chapter or it's going to drive me crazy! I've made sure to label them accordingly, to avoid confusion, and hopefully it isn't to jarring from one to the next. We're getting into the meat now, and the pace will be picking up very soon on what amount of time is covered in each chapter. But for now, I won't cheat some of these right proper lads and lasses out of establishing themselves before every goes all "Walking Dead".

  
  


** _Sansa_ **

Sansa felt uneasy. That wasn’t altogether unusual, she’d experienced that pervasive sensation in the pit of her stomach for years, it seemed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the betrayal, the hurt, the misery of being abandoned in situations that were increasingly more terrifying as she had grown older. She’d left Arya at the door to her room after leaving Daenerys Targaryen with her brother, the Dragon Queen’s mere presence certainly adding to her general anxiety this night.

She wasn’t what Sansa had expected. The Lady of Winterfell had heard many tales of the exploits of the Last Targaryen, but they were all filled with fire and blood and conquest. She had expected a demanding, proud, boastful woman, someone like Cersei, riddled with expectation and entitlement. Instead, her impression was one of a woman who’d suffered much, who probably hadn’t had much kindness at all in her life. It made Sansa feel enormously conflicted, to be honest.

On the one hand, this was a Queen with the most powerful armies in any land, with two fire-breathing dragons to enforce her will. She was the Mad King’s Daughter, after all, and that lent a certain expectation to what her disposition would be. On the other, though, there was an undercurrent of sadness and loneliness that she understood better after the Queen had shared some stories with them. For all the horrors Sansa had experienced, first in King’s Landing, then in the Vale, then in her very own home…she’d had parents who loved her. She’d had siblings who loved her, even if Arya had been questionable at times. She had memories of them to cling to when things had been hardest for her, when there seemed to be no way out of her latest impossible predicament.

Daenerys Targaryen had not had any of those things. No parents to love her, and her only sibling the sort who would sell his sister for an army of savage horselords. She had no family, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her, to want to reach out to her, to befriend this girl barely older than herself who hadn’t had much kindness at all in her life. She would guard against that impulse, at least for now, because Sansa Stark did not trust easily. Not anymore.

She was not sure that she could trust this beautiful Queen with her brother. Jon, who’d known a lack of love and kindness of his own growing up in Winterfell, always on the outside. Sansa knew her father had loved his bastard son, but her mother made sure her oldest brother knew he was not wanted in her home. She remembered reuniting with him at Castle Black, and having to *force* him to say he forgave her. The strangest part was that Jon really seemed to believe what he’d told her, that there was nothing to forgive. How he could have turned out so tremendously good after growing up hated by Sansa’s mother, taking the black and being killed by his men, Rickon being murdered right in front of him…in her estimation Jon had plenty of reasons to be bitter, angry, to have shut her out when she came to him for help. But he had not, because in spite of everything, her brother was probably the best man she knew, the most uncorrupted by the lures of power.

That’s what worried her for him. 

People who craved power and influence lied. That’s just what they did. They seemed to have a gift for telling others what they wanted to hear, no thought given to the consequences that might unfold. 

Jon did not crave power. Truly, Sansa feared that he would let people take advantage of him, assuming others would deal with him as truly and honestly as he did with them. Those sorts of people rarely existed, in Sansa’s considered estimation. She couldn’t pretend to know what sort of woman Daenerys Targaryen really was, or whether the loneliness of Jon’s life had made him ripe for plucking by another monster who would use him and destroy him, destroy everything that was good in him, when she was done. 

She paced, her hands aching with nerves, knowing sleep was not going to come anytime soon. There were strangers in her home, and she did not know if they could be trusted.

But then, they weren’t all strangers. It occurred to her that there was possibly someone she could talk to, perhaps the one other person she’d discovered since she’d left Winterfell so long ago that hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t used her for his own ends. Had the opportunity to treat her as Ramsay Bolton had and did not. 

She would find Tyrion. Perhaps she could find it in herself to trust him with her concerns.

\-----------------

It hadn’t been hard to find him, one merely needed to follow the wine where Tyrion Lannister was involved.

Sansa had passed a serving girl in the hall near the front of the keep, who instructed her that the Queen’s hand was currently alone in the Great Hall, drinking himself to sleep by all accounts. She sighed. She wasn’t afraid of him, of course, she just wished he could be a bit more *sober* for the discussion she needed to have with him.

The heels of her boots clicked as she stepped across the stone floor, alerting Tyrion to her presence as he looked up, rising when he realized it was her.

“Lady Sansa. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Perhaps he wasn’t too far gone, he wasn’t slurring at all and he hadn’t swayed on his feet when he’d risen. Sansa took a seat in the chair beside him, trying to decide how best to start.

“I need to speak with you, my Lord. I have some…questions.” At her pause Tyrion nodded sagely, gazing into his cup and swirling the red liquid around.

“Let me guess. The King and Queen, perhaps? A popular subject of conversation.” Tyrion looked at knowingly, and waved a hand for her to ask what she would of him.

“What happened between the Queen and my brother, my Lord?”

Her former husband snorted and took a sip, a wry smile flashing. “Well, it’s relatively simple, really. Tragically brave and beautiful King and Queen meet, act like stubborn mules to each other, risk their lives for each other, and fall madly in love at the end of the world. I’ve read such a story many times.” Tyrion chuckled, looking into her serious face. “But seeing it in person? That’s an entirely different. Quite extraordinary, really, if the timing and circumstance weren’t so bloody terrible. Though I suppose it lends to the romance of it all.”

Sansa leaned back, hands folded in her lap, watching. “Must you always jest, Tyrion?”

He looked at her now, now straight-faced, and placed his cup on the table, turning to face her fully. “It’s how I deal with situations that are utterly and completely out of my control. That, and copious amounts of wine. And seeing as I find myself constantly in those sorts of situations, it’s become something of a habit. I apologize.” 

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “They’re in love, Sansa. Not some trickery to gain an alliance or a ploy to win an army. I wouldn’t advise trying to talk either of them out of it, if you were considering it. I wouldn’t want to at this point. We’re here,” Tyrion gestured to the walls around them, “to fight an enemy few have ever seen to the North, with less than ideal odds in our favor, and Cersei hiring sellsword armies to use against us to the South. I’ll not take away whatever happiness they can find before we ask them to risk their lives for us.”

Sansa stood, finding a goblet for herself in a small alcove and returning to pour herself some wine. She felt him watch her take her seat, trying to gauge her reaction. “I don’t want to hurt them, my Lord. I don’t want to force them apart. I’m just trying to understand. Sometimes I look around, at what’s happening, and I wonder if I’m the only sane one left. Jon’s always rushing off trying to get himself killed, Arya’s some sort of assassin, and Bran…” she sighed, “I don’t even have the words for what’s happened to him.”

Tyrion leaned back in his seat, taking a large sip. “I’m familiar with the feeling. I think I’ve discovered the answer, at least in my situation. Would you like to hear it?”

Sansa nodded, watching as he became more animated. “We live a world, now, where things we were told were old wives’ tales or not possible are happening. Increasingly. We’ve all gathered here to fight a war that was last fought eight thousand years ago. Daenerys has dragons and cannot be burnt by fire. Your brother was killed by his Night’s Watch brothers at Castle Black and resurrected from the dead. We are placing the entire responsibility of winning this war on their shoulders.” Tyrion looked at her now, a half smile on his face. “And I was getting frustrated that they weren’t agreeing with my opinion on the strategic merits of anything more than a political alliance. They weren’t the mad ones, I was.”

Sansa chuckled. “That rings a bit true, I suppose.” She looked at him now, smiling a bit at the oddness of the world, that of all the people that had been thrown into her life since she’d left her home, she would be here now, with him, definitely the better of the two husbands she’d had.

“It’s just hard, Tyrion. I’ve made so many stupid choices, let myself be the victim of other people’s games for so long now that it’s hard for me to trust that anyone could possibly mean just what they say anymore. I don’t know how to stop it, suspecting that behind every kind word is a knife coming straight for me.” She closed her eyes and turned her face down, collecting herself.

Tyrion rose now, draining his goblet and coming to stand before her. “My lady, can I give you some advice?”

“You may.” She found herself actually a bit eager to hear it. Good counsel had been hard to come by as of late, with Arya offering something in as few words as possible and vaguely threatening.

“When you have been injured, deeply, by people you trusted, it can feel impossible to trust anyone ever again. But you were just a girl, Sansa, and it wasn’t your fault. At some point,” he laughed, “preferably before our impending doom approaches, you’ve got to forgive yourself. We have to be united, now, all of us. Your brother and my Queen, they’re going to need our support. Because if we lose them, Sansa, either of them, I don’t think the rest of us will have much chance at all. We don’t know what time might be left to us. Why not spend it with the people you care most about while you can? Trying, at least, so start learning to trust them? And yourself?” Tyrion nodded a head in farewell and left, taking the pitcher from the table and carrying it with him. “Goodnight, Lady Stark.”

Sansa waited ‘til she could no longer hear his footsteps, then let out a long slow breath. The problem with Tyrion was that he tended to be right much of the time, and her insides froze like the snows draped across the landscape outside when she thought about what was coming. She would have to try very hard, now, to be there for her brother. Jon had been there for her when she’d had no one else. Jon had saved her. Now Jon was trying to save them all, and so was Daenerys, and they didn’t deserve mistrust and coldness from her when they’d done nothing to earn it.

Tomorrow, she thought, as she left the Great Hall and headed for her bed, perhaps a bit drowsier and at least more settled in her thoughts, she would see about starting a cloak for Daenerys. Winter was here, and she was going to need it.

\---------------------

** _Daenerys_ **

Daenerys opened her eyes slowly, the feel of him spooned against her back making her reluctant to wake at all as she felt Jon’s rough, calloused palm slide over her abdomen, where his child was starting to make itself unmistakably known. She was of slight build; she had perhaps another month before others would see the swell of life growing inside her, what she and Jon had created together. She held perfectly still, not wanting him to withdraw his hand, the sweetness of how gentle he was being making her bite her lip to keep from saying his name.

Jon had done exactly as she’d asked of him weeks ago; he had not mentioned what might be, had not pushed her to discuss it or plan anything or to stop scouting on Drogon when they stopped along the Kingsroad. That had been her first concern, when she’d first allowed herself to think about what was happening to her, that in spite of everything she’d believed to be true about herself, Jon had been right about this. She thought back, trying to determine how long this babe taken root inside her. If it had been that first night, that first wonderful time when he’d knocked on her door, looking so nervous but determined, touching her like he worshipped her, then she could be nearly four months along. She would probably need to see a Maester soon, and then all her advisors would know, and would be demanding she think about heirs and the Iron Throne and forget about fighting in this war.

Jon had not asked that of her. She knew, as he did, what would be required of them if they were to have any chance of winning. They would both have to fight. They would have to lead their armies, separately if necessary, because both her dragons had riders now and the North was vast. Today they would have to start planning, going back to being a King and a Queen once again, strategizing and planning and trying to save as many people as they could. Jon seemed to think it was a certainty that the Night King would breach Eastwatch, primarily because the very eastern edge of the wall was smaller, thinner, not as fortified.

Dany sighed now, knowing he would feel it and know she was awake, and she slid her hand down his arm to cover his own, holding his palm against that slight swell with her own. She smiled as she felt him press a kiss against the back of her neck, his beard scratchy and tickling her.

“If you had a son, Jon, what would you name him?” She felt the exhalation of breath, his arm tensing as he brought her closer, keeping his hand pressed against her.

“I’ve never really thought about it, I guess. I wasn’t even a man yet, really, when I joined the Night’s Watch, and I swore then I’d father no children.” He paused for a moment, just breathing with her, holding her. “But I think…if I had a son, perhaps I would want to name him Aemon. The last Aemon Targaryen I knew was a good man, and if my son were to be anything like him I would consider myself lucky.”

Aemon. She liked that name, though it was a bittersweet thought. She wished she’d been able to have met him, her great-uncle, sworn Maester of the Night’s Watch. He knew about her, Jon had told her that, how his friend Sam would read Maester Aemon letters about her exploits across the narrow sea, how it pained him that he could not go to her, help her, be with the last remaining family he had left.

“That’s a good name for a son, I think.” She could feel his lips against her neck, smiling, and she squeezed the hand he was holding against her.

“What would you name a daughter, if you had one, Dany?” She considered the question, one she had been rolling around a bit in her head over the years. As a girl, when she thought she’d marry Viserys, she had thought she would name any daughters she had after Aegon the Conqueror’s sister wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, or perhaps her mother. But she was a woman grown, now, and there were other Targaryen Queens whose stories she knew, Queens who had been good, or wise, or kind to the people over which they ruled. 

“Alysanne, I think. She was married to Jaehaerys I, and they were both much loved by the people. I think a daughter who could be as kind to her people as Good Queen Alysanne would make me very happy.” She turned in his arms, now, giving him a gentle kiss then pulling back to look at him.

“I like it. Am I to take it that this is something we are talking about now?” There was humor in his voice, as though he were teasing, but she knew he was testing, too, to see if she was really ready to discuss it or if she was just dipping her toe in cautiously.

“That depends. Are you going to start ordering me about, telling me what I can and cannot do to fight in this war, as our advisors will undoubtedly do? Will you force me to watch you leave to battle the Night King when we swore we would do this together?” She did not tease, in her question, because this was one of her biggest fears. She would not be sidelined and let him leave her when she could fight with him, for him, for the family they could be together.

“I will not.” He looked at her, eyes studying her face intently. “I hate it, but I will not do it. You are not my property, Daenerys. You have your own armies, under your command, as do I. We cannot afford to lose you and Drogon before the fighting even starts. But I hate it and I need you to know that. I will not stop you, because we must all of us fight now, but I will not lose you. You must swear to me that you will be careful. That’s all I will ask of you.”

She had not expected that. She should have, perhaps, but she’d already been preparing herself to fight with him over this, to argue her case that this fight must be won, quickly, and that would only happen if they brought the full force of their combined might.

“Thank you.” She kissed him, again, just a brush of lips. “You must not die, Jon. I command it. Swear to me, as your Queen, that you will not. There is no other for me, no man I will ever love as I love you. If you die in this fight and leave me to do this alone, you condemn me to misery for the rest of my days.” She brought her hands to either side of his face, holding tight, their eyes level as they lay there. “Swear it, Jon, and I will believe it.”

“I swear, Dany. I will see this done and finished, with you, together.” He swiped a thumb under her eye, brushing away a tear that had leaked out without her notice. “I will not leave this earth without seeing the face of my child.”

She released her grip, caressing his cheeks now, his neck, that beloved face that was now a vital part of her existence. “How soon can we marry, Jon?”

“Gods, not soon enough.” Jon kissed her, fierce and hard, but pulled back quickly. “We’ll see to it today. I’m growing very tired of not waking up to the knowledge that you are my wife.” He sat up, pulling her with him. She knew they needed to rise and start their day, there was much to do, and the sooner they started the sooner she would find herself with him, tonight, where he was only hers.

“Alright. Have you already planned what we need to address today?” She rose from the bed, still wearing his tunic, and knelt down by the embers of the fire to give Ghost the attention he seemed to crave from her. She suspected the truth was that he knew that she was with child, Jon’s child, and he was going to follow her closely to protect her. It made her happy, a little piece of him that she could have with her when he was not, and though he teased her about it, she knew it pleased him that his wolf had taken to her so.

“Well, we probably need to fly to the Dreadfort today at some point. It’s empty, and the location makes it useful for staging portions of our armies. It’s Sansa’s by marriage, and she said we could burn it down to the ground if we needed, as she was never stepping foot in it.” Dany quirked an eyebrow at him. “It belonged to the Boltons.” 

“I see. Anything else? Besides arranging your public declaration of unending devotion to your Queen, of course?” Jon laughed, considering.

“I probably ought to tell my sisters about everything before they find out from someone else and plot against us both. Hells, Arya’s going to be mad I didn’t tell her yesterday.” He walked over, barechested and just wearing the breeches he’d pulled on, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head atop hers. “Let’s go, I’ll show you where your room is so you can get ready. The sooner we get all this done the sooner I can have you alone.”

She nestled her head into him, soaking in the last few seconds she might have today of him holding her before they parted ways for a bit. This was everything she wanted, forever, just this. And this was worth fighting for.

\------------------

** _Arya_ **

Arya carried her brother’s sword carefully, glorying in the feeling of holding it in her hands. It was wrapped, certainly, she didn’t want to advertise the presence of something so valuable to some of the absolute halfwits now wandering her childhood home. She didn’t care if they knew, but she knew and it almost made her smile. A Targaryen sword. *Visenya* Targaryen’s sword. Gods. Visenya had always been Arya’s favorite. She was the warrior, in truth. Rhaenys had been Aegon’s favorite, the prettier one, not even armed except for her dragon Meraxes.

Visenya carried Dark Sister into battle atop Vhagar, and Visenya could slay a man in combat just as well as her brother. And *her* brother, he was one of them. It all seemed unreal, like one of those stories Sansa always wanted to read, about princes and princesses and kissing frogs, nonsense like that. Sansa had started crying almost immediately after Jon told them, predictably, apologizing profusely for how Jon had been treated growing up, for her mother’s coldness, but Jon had just hugged her and told her to stop apologizing, that it was long ago and forgotten by him, that she needed to stop punishing herself for things she couldn’t change.

Arya had been surprised, certainly, and she was rarely surprised by anything these days. It didn’t really matter, though. And that’s what she told him. He was still her brother, he was her blood, and she didn’t care if it was the blood of his father or the blood of his mother. They were family, that was that.

Jon had smiled, hugging her too, but he still would not agree when she then immediately demanded to see the dragons that the Queen and her brother could ride. 

And now Arya was going to get her brother’s Targaryen sword checked over with the blacksmith, as it hadn’t been used for an absurdly long time, and he wanted the grip and binding looked at before he began to train with it. 

She looked over at the training yard, noticing a group of boys and young men practicing with wooden swords, a tall man who looked increasingly familiar barking orders at them. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she walked over, approaching the man who appeared to be training them from behind.

“If you want to kill something, you little shits, you better start swinging those swords like you didn’t just spit your mother’s teat out of your mouths!” That voice was a voice she knew. She knew it very well and she was surprised that she felt a little glad he wasn’t dead. If he was here then Jon must have allowed it, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to investigate.

“How is it you still haven’t managed to get yourself killed yet?” He didn’t even turn, just stood there watching wooden swords swinging haphazardly at stuffed targets.

“I could ask you the same question, wolf girl, but I already know the answer. You’re too mean too fucking die.” She walked up to the wooden rail fencing the yard, not looking at him, but leaning her back against the fence and facing away near where he stood. She leaned Jon’s sword carefully next to her.

“What’s that?” His question came out as a growl.

“None of your fucking business, that’s what. What’re you doing here?” The nice thing about the Hound, the thing she had forgotten about him, was he didn’t require things like eye contact or manners. It was refreshing, to be honest.

“Not here to pay you a visit, I’ll tell you that. Here to fight the army of dead men, I guess, and kill my monstrous cunt of a brother after that.”

Arya nodded to herself. She could respect that, he had a list just as she did, but his had always had one name.

“Good. Then maybe you ought to actually try to teach these pants-pissers how to stab something instead of just yelling at them.” He straightened, arms bracing himself on the railing as he finally turned to look at her. She felt a strange rush of gladness – he’d never been the monster he pretended to be, she knew that know even if she hadn’t as a girl.

“Don’t you have something better to do than stand here bothering me? Fuck off.” He turned back to the yard, and she might have believed him, but there was a tiny hint of a smile on his face.

Arya picked up the wrapped bundle beside her, leaving without saying anything at all. That might have been the nicest conversation she’d ever had with him. 

She made her way to the Winterfell forge, which was now bustling with activity as their newly arrived guests had brought more men to man the fires and forge weapons for the fight.

She walked through the wide doors, the heat washing over her as the sounds of the shop rang through her ears. They’d been going non-stop before Jon and the Queen arrived, moving through the shipments of dragon glass Jon had been sending as quickly as they could. There had not, however, been a proper blacksmith in Winterfell since the Boltons had sacked it and killed Old Mikken. Jon had mentioned bringing one back with them, and had sent her on this task while he set about making the preparations to marry the Queen. She was happy for him, because the Queen made him happy, and Jon hadn’t really been happy all that much, but she wasn’t going to stick around planning what to eat and drink and say. Sansa was going to help the Queen’s advisor prepare her wedding clothes, and there was no way Arya was getting stuck in all that mess.

She’d gladly take care of the sword.

Arya sidled past a crew working on arrow heads and made her way closer to the fires. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the hammering as she asked one of the men where the new blacksmith could be found. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to an anvil near the forge where, sure enough, a man was hammering away on a red hot blade. He was oblivious to her, not hearing her approach over the ringing of the hammer he swung, and she placed the sword on the worktable behind her, leaning against it and crossing her arms against her chest. She’d learned with Mikken as a girl not to startle someone swinging a blacksmith’s hammer. At best, you fuck up your blade. At worst, someone crushes a finger. 

Arya watched him, while she waited, because that was something she was very good at now. She could only watch his back of course, but she could still draw some conclusions.

He was young. His neck was unlined, he had none of the stoop she’d observed that suggested a certain length of life.

He was strong. She could see the muscles bunching in his back as he raised the hammer and swung it down. His arms were what you’d expect from a blacksmith, defined, a decent amount of muscle mass. In a fight she’d have to go in low because he had the build of an opponent you would try to avoid a hit from if possible.

He seemed skilled, as far as she could tell. She watched a few in their craft in all her travels, and he didn’t have the misses and imprecise hits of someone who was relatively new or untrained.

That was good. She wasn’t sure she’d trust the man with what she’d brought, but she’d certainly find out.

The blacksmith stopped, then, cooling the blade and setting it aside. He reached for another bar to heat and she realized that she’d better speak up or she’d be waiting quite awhile.

“The King sent something he wants you to examine.” She didn’t speak loudly, but he started all the same, cursing and dropping the rod he’d been holding.

“Bit of warning next time would be nice.” He had spoken with his back still turned, but as he faced her all of the breath left her chest.

Apparently it left his to, because he just stood there with his mouth open like a big dumb oaf and she’d never wanted to punch someone and also hug them at the same time in her life. It was an unsettling feeling. She wanted to punch people much more frequently than she wanted to hug them.

So she punched him. Not as hard as she wanted to, but enough to know he had it coming. 

He sat down heavily on the bench long the work table, holding his stomach with one hand and wincing. “You’re a lot fucking stronger than the last time I saw you.” He was smiling a bit, so she guessed she’d hadn’t done any permanent damage. 

“You’re a lot fucking older since the last time I saw you.” He laughed and it bothered her that she even noticed that he was a lot older and looked like a man now and that he looked a bit nice when he smiled. That didn’t matter to her at all.

“So are you.” Fair enough. She had only been 13 when the Brotherhood had sold him to Red Woman. 

“What did you do to your hair?” She watched as he ran his hand over it, confused at first.

“Oh. I cut it. What did you do to yours?” He pointed at her hair as he asked, studying her while he waited for a reply.

This conversation was bothering her now, too, because a part of her wanted to laugh that he couldn’t seem to speak or respond in anything more than a few words, just staring at her as they talked. That part of her was unfamiliar and reminded her far too much of Sansa and her silly friends when they were girls and she didn’t care for it at all.

“I didn’t cut it.” She turned after she spoke, unwrapping the sword she’d nearly forgotten about, seeing him stand out of the corner of her eye and approach. “My brother said his new blacksmith knew how to work on Valyrian steel swords. Is that true?”

She heard him swiftly inhale as he stood beside her, looking over the blade. “Seven Hells. That’s fucking Dark Sister.” She nodded when he looked at her in disbelief, privately a little glad she wasn’t the only one awed by it. One of the lost swords of the original Targaryen conquerors, right here in front of her. He reached an arm across her drag the sword closer to him, examining the rippled blade and flipping it over, examining the length of it. 

“Why are you here, Gendry? What are you doing in Winterfell?” He looked up from the blade, staring right at her before she was expecting it, and it caught her a bit off guard. He broke the stare then, sitting down and sighing, motioning for her to join him.

Arya did, but slowly, turning to face him as he began to answer her question.

“That Red Woman? She bought me from the Brotherhood because I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard, and she wanted my blood for some Lord of Light fire magic or some shit like that.” She just raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue, not letting shock even flash onto her features. That explained why the Gold Cloaks had been after him, then.

“They were going to kill me, her and Stannis, but Davos was there with them and he set me free in a fucking boat I didn’t know how to row. Got myself back to King’s Landing eventually, and just hid in plain sight. I guess Cersei Lannister forgot she wanted to kill me, ‘course she’s been busy killing plenty of other people.” His voice trailed off and he shrugged, looking back at the sword and continuing. “Then Davos showed up at my shop. Said there was a war coming, a bloody bad one, and he wanted me to come with him, so I did. I wasn’t gonna stay there in King’s Landing making swords for fucking Lannisters any more.” Now he turned back to face her, serious. “He took me to the King. Your brother. Jon said they were going beyond the Wall to capture one of those things trying to march down and kill us all, so I went.”

Arya looked down, and hated herself for it, hated that she was furious that he would do that, it was so stupid and reckless and she shouldn’t even care anyway. She’d thought he was dead, hadn’t she? 

“Arya.” She looked back up, and he looked so grave it made her feel sick to her stomach. “I saw them. They’re real and they’re fucking coming and I’m here because I’m not some coward that’s going to sit on the side while other people fight this war. So I came, because this is where the fight is.” He rubbed his hand over his cropped hair again. “If it makes you feel any better, Thoros and Beric were there, beyond the wall, and Thoros won’t be selling anyone else anytime soon.”

Arya tipped her head, interested. “Why not?”

Gendry’s smile was grim. “He died out there after a fucking bear attacked us. A dead one.”

She was laughing before she could stop it, and it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard, and he still looked serious so that meant it was true, and that made her laugh even more. And she stopped herself as soon as she could, because he was just looking at her. 

“We’re probably all going to die, you know.” She said it quietly, but it didn’t need to be loud to be true, and she thought it might have been the first time she said that to anyone about what was coming. 

“You’re probably right.” 

She stood then, needing to make him stop looking at her now. It was making her hands sweat and she was not going to have this inside her. She had spent years in Braavos training to feel nothing at all and she wasn’t going to start now.

“But you’ll die sooner if you fuck up that sword, Gendry, and that’s a promise.” She made sure she used her most intimidating, serious, threatening voice, low and quiet and unnerving. He was not supposed to smile slowly at her and look at her like that, like he knew her. She was absolutely not going to smile back at him.

“I’ll try not to.” She nodded and left, stopping short when he said, “I’m glad you’re alive, Arya.” She clenched her fists and bit her lip as hard as she could, stopping any watering that gathered in her eyes before it could grow.

“Just check it over and make sure it’s sound enough for my brother to train with.” She left then, for good, not waiting to hear his response.

\---------------

Arya found Sansa in her chambers, stitching something Arya had no interest in asking about and looking up sharply at her sister’s abrupt entry.

“Have you considered knocking, Arya? It’s considered polite in some circles.” Arya just ignored her, pacing a bit before slamming herself down into a chair.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa put down her work, now, looking vaguely concerned. Arya struggled to find the words, beyond the fact that she was just bothered. Extremely aggravatingly bothered by everything that had just happened.

“Did you know Jon brought a blacksmith back with him?” 

Sansa just shrugged. “What’s wrong with that? I’d think it would come in handy, what with the upcoming war and all. Why does that bother you?”

Arya thought perhaps she wasn’t explaining it right. “I knew him. A long time ago. Before Mother and Robb died. When the Brotherhood took us.” She’d told Sansa everything that had happened to her, and Sansa had done the same, but only once, and they’d never spoken of it again.

Sansa looked lost in thought. “The one that got sold to that woman Melisandre?”

“That’s the one. Gendry. I thought he was dead.” She examined her thumb nail, biting at it, not realizing until a few moments had passed that Sansa wasn’t saying anything. She looked up to see Sansa smiling at her, just barely, just with one side of her mouth. That was the smile that got under Arya’s skin the most, where her sister would just smile as if she knew everything when she clearly didn’t. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Sansa reached for her work, arranging it back on her lap and rethreading her needle.

“It’s not like that.” Sometimes she really wanted to punch her sister. Not really, she wouldn’t actually do it, Sansa had been hurt enough and Arya would kill anyone who tried now, but she *wanted* to punch her very badly as her sister smirked at her.

“I’m sure it’s not, Arya.” Sansa stitched for a minute, then looked back at her. “Is he handsome?”

“What does that have to do with anything? Of course not!” Arya crossed her arms across her chest, not understanding how Sansa could fail to grasp what she was upset about. Why would anyone care if Gendry was handsome? She certainly didn’t think so. 

“Maybe you should invite him to eat with us tomorrow, Arya? So we can all see if he’s as handsome as you seem to think he is.” That was it. She was leaving. She wasn’t going to be accused of the sorts of girlish flights of fancy and concerns that Sansa seemed so obsessed with. Sansa laughed as she got up to leave and called her back. “Arya, can I give you some advice?”

“I doubt I need it and I definitely didn’t ask for it, Sansa.” Arya looked down at her boot, one hand on the door. She looked up to see Sansa watching her and said, “Get on with it.”

“Have you considered talking to him without involving the threat of killing him?” 

Arya looked at her sister sharply. “I never said I threatened to kill him.”

Sansa just looked at her wryly. “No, you didn’t, but I’m almost certain it happened.”

Arya sighed. “Only once.”

Sansa laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, Arya. Just go sharpen your dagger or something and try not to kill anyone.” She looked down at her embroidery, adding, “And definitely don’t think about how much you want to kiss him.”

Arya swung open the door, calling over her shoulder, “You obviously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She slammed the door shut as Sansa laughed, calling back, “Good luck, sister!”

Arya stomped down the hall to her room, ready to be alone for a bit and rid herself of this ridiculous feeling of aggravation.

This was ridiculous. She had sliced Littlefinger’s throat wide open in the Great Hall and hadn’t been bothered at all. That had actually felt vindicating, like justice.

But she might want to kiss Gendry, just a little part of her did, and that was terrifying.

  
  
Chapter 13: Who Comes Before the Old Gods?  
Summary:

Griff is not dead. A chat with Jon. Sansa makes something pretty. A wedding. A disturbing tale on the top of the Keep.

  
  
Notes:

So, I promised it tonight and here it is. A note: I don't have Jon recognize both houses in his vows because a few chapters ago Jon mentions he wants to keep his Targaryen heritage on the hush hush til the Northern Lords have agreed to do their parts in the war now swiftly approaching. Now I can go respond the awesome feedback without feeling guilty that I'll post this too late. Honestly, thanks for reading :) And there will be smut next chapter, some wedding night bizness, but I really thought it didn't fit after the last scene in this chapter. You'll see. Also next chapter, Jon and Dany tagteaming those crybaby Northern Lords, maybe with an assist by Lyanna Mormont because I want to put her in my pocket and carry her everywhere to talk shit to people who piss me off.

  
  


** _Griff_ **

Jon Snow was getting married today.

Griff had watched the frenzy of the past two days with amusement, helping out where he could in the forges, in planning supply lines, and he’d gotten confirmation from Harry that the Golden Company’s forces were now well enmeshed in King’s Landing and the surrounding area, mingling in with the Lannister forces. Griff wasn’t surprised, the more he’d learned from the King and Queen about what had happened in the past few years, the more he realized that Cersei was truly growing desperate. Too desperate to doubt the army she thought she’d purchased with the Iron Bank’s gold, at any rate. No one with a sane thought in their head would take on a Targaryen with dragons, a lesson Westeros had learned hundreds of years ago.

Jon Snow was getting married tonight in the Godswood, but this morning he was planning their defenses.

Griff watched him circle around the table before him, coming to a stop on the eastern edge. “Last Hearth and Karhold will be the first the Night King’s Army will reach, if he breaches the Wall at Eastwatch.” The King looked up, first at Daenerys then at the assembled advisors gathered in the room. “When the Northern Lords arrive tomorrow, I will inform them that House Umber will come South, immediately. That is the first engagement point, and I will not provide the Night King with more bodies for his army so soon after he begins his march.” He pointed now at the Dreadfort, to the east of Winterfell, formerly home to House Bolton but now abandoned and under the control of the King’s sister, Sansa. “The Dreadfort can house what remains of House Umber along with a contingency of forces.” Now he pointed at Karhold. “House Karstark may remain, for now, but if the armies of the undead reach them at Karhold first they will need to immediately evacuate. We will divide our armies between those three keeps, keeping our remaining forces at Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn should we fail to stop the dead.”

“And where will you evacuate *to*, from Karhold?” Tyrion Lannister had come to stand next to the King, and Griff craned his neck a bit to see what Jon had in mind. Ahh, he saw it now, as Tyrion must have, already nodding as the King answered.

“By river, here. Whichever forces we send will need to ensure that they are prepared to move immediately. Forces at the Dreadfort may evacuate the same way, and take Weeping Water towards the sea.” The King looked up then, at Griff and then at his Hand, Ser Davos. Griff liked the old smuggler; he didn’t mince his words, and he seemed very loyal to his King.

“Griff, Davos. I need to you make sure we have ships waiting at the mouths of those rivers. The army of the undead cannot swim, thankfully, and if we are overrun that will be the fastest and probably only means of escape.” Griff nodded his assent and Davos did the same.

Griff was glad to be put to some use, honestly. He’d kept a respectful distance from Rhaegar’s son since he’d told him the truth about who he was, who his parents were, but he could tell the King was avoiding him a bit. He couldn’t blame him. The sellsword had heard tales from some of the King’s men, both on their journey to Winterfell and since they’d arrived, about what they were truly facing. He couldn’t expect Jon to seek him about with questions about his parents, even if he were curious, instead of planning how best to defend his people. 

Now Daenerys spoke. “The King and I will each patrol with a dragon. We will maintain a fixed route between these keeps so that we are not caught off guard when the army approaches.” She looked at the King now, the man she would would marry this very night, her face set firm with none of the softness Griff had seen between the two as they traveled. “Should the Night King approach, it is only the King who is to engage him. I will maintain a defensive position from the air on Drogon, while the King and Rhaegal fight from the ground.”

He watched as they looked at each other, the King’s face grim but accepting as he nodded in agreement. Now Griff understood; the King did not want her to fight, but she was going to anyway. A difficult decision, but a wise one if they were to end this with any haste. Griff knew dragons only took one rider at a time, and keeping the Queen back with her mount instead of using them both would only prolong the fight.

“Think on it, my Lords. We will meet tomorrow morning before the Northmen arrive, so should any adjustments to this plan occur to you, you may tell us then.” The King looked at the gathered group, a slight smirk on his face. “You are *not*, however, to speak to me of those plans at my wedding.”

There was laughter from the group, then the King and Queen dismissed them, turning to each other, Daenerys taking the young King’s hand. Griff gave them both a smile, making to leave, but turned back at the King’s voice.

“Griff. The Queen must go see to a few things, would you mind accompanying me for a bit?” Griff nodded, a bit surprised, but followed the King in the North through the door, walking in silence for a bit as they passed through the great stone halls and outside towards the gates.

“I must apologize.” The King exhaled, striding towards the hills above the great Keep. “I’ve been avoiding coming to you, seeing how you were faring once you arrived.”

Griff just chuckled. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. Don’t trouble yourself with apologies. I understand the responsibilities a King faces, and now you are a King at war.”

Jon turned to look at him, face serious, eyes flashing gray in the pale winter sun. “When I took the black, my father was riding for King’s Landing. I asked him that day, to tell me the truth. I asked him if my mother knew about me, where I was going…whether she was alive, if she cared.” The King looked out towards where the Kingsroad lay in the distance, remembering. “He told me the next time we saw each other, he’d tell me about her. My mother. He said I was a Stark. That I may not have had his name, but I had his blood.” Jon turned back, looking at Griff once more. “Then he died.” Griff could feel something twist in his chest, what Ned must have endured for so long, how it must have pained him to not tell this boy he’d raised the truth because it wasn’t safe, it would never be safe, so long as Robert Baratheon had lived. 

Jon continued, more quietly now. “I owe you my thanks. If it weren’t for you I’d have spent the rest of my days wondering.” Griff just looked at this King, this man who seemed more and more to be the best of the two who’d created him, and the man who’d raised him.

“He would be proud of you, your father. Of the man you’ve become.” Jon looked down, studying his boots, and Griff continued, “and so would Rhaegar.”

The King’s dark head shot up, eyes locking with Griff’s, but the sellsword cut him off. “You are a Stark, by blood, son of the Wild Wolf of Winterfell. And you are a Targaryen by blood, son of the Prince of Dragonstone.” Jon waited, allowing Griff to continue. “But blood doesn’t raise you, your Grace. Ned Stark is your father, the man who raised you, who loved you, who protected you.”

Jon nodded, averting his head and starting to walk again, Griff struggling a bit with the slope of the hill, growing curious about where he was being taken. His eyes grew wide with wonder as they reached the top, breathing in sharply as he saw the two great dragons before them. They stood for a moment, just watching the pair as they slept against each other.

“I told Theon Greyjoy that he didn’t have to choose, that he could be a Stark and a Greyjoy.” Jon paused, and Griff remained silent, waiting. “But each time I’ve been tempted to ask you something about Rhaegar, about my mother…”

Griff finished the statement for him. “You felt you were betraying the memory of the man who raised you.”

Jon nodded, starting down to where the dragons lay, looking back as he realized Griff hadn’t begun to follow him. “Are you coming?”

“To see them? I didn’t think it wise to approach them. I’m not a Targaryen, your Grace, I know the tales of what happens to those who presume when it comes to dragons.” 

Jon studied him for a moment. “Stay behind me and you’ll be alright, I think. I’ll not be taking you to Dany’s dragon, in any case. I’m taking you to mine. The one named for my other father. Your best friend. I thought you might like to meet him.” Jon turned and started walking then, and Griff could do nothing but follow, speechless. He’d never dreamed dragons would return again, much less that he would be invited this close to one.

“Wait here.” They were closer than Griff thought was wise, but Jon just approached the great green dragon, not quite as big as the Queen’s but still massive, and took off a glove. Griff watched as the dragon opened one eye slowly as the King approached, making no move as the man’s palm reached down to slide against the skin between his nostril and great tooth-filled mouth. He saw Jon smile, nodding to himself.

“C’mon then. Slowly. He’ll let you near.”

Griff crept closer, eyeing that maw of teeth that could spew fire forth at any minute, coming to a halt a foot or two before him. He looked up, into that great golden orb, that seemed to examine him to his very core.

All Griff could manage was a whisper. “I understand it, now, in a way I never did before.” Jon cocked his head, still smoothing his hand on the dragon’s snout. “All those Targaryens, so desperate to try to bring them back, killing themselves in their foolish attempts. I see why. Because this…this is like staring into the face of the Gods themselves.”

Jon smiled, closing his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them to meet Griff’s again, steely gray on blue, his gaze had sharpened. “Not Gods, Griff. They serve us and we serve them. The Targaryens who came before me, before Dany…they forgot that, somewhere along the way. The dragons love their riders, they will protect them with their lives, even if it means killing one of their kin.” Jon nodded to the Queen’s dragon. “They stopped loving their dragons, remembering their shared blood, remembering that they were family as well. And so the dragons stopped answering their call.”

Griff looked at Jon in wonder, finally giving voice to the tickle in his mind at what he might have just watched. “You’re talking to him, aren’t you? You can understand him?”

The young King studied him, considering for a bit before he responded. “Why would you think that?”

“Because your mother was a skinchanger, a warg. I suspect you are too, no regular man, not even a Northerner could have a direwolf as a companion if that were not the case.” Jon patted the dragon’s snout, finally putting his glove back and walking to Griff, gesturing back to the hill they’d climbed.

They began to walk, and Jon finally responded. “I can. But I’d ask you not to mention that to anyone, especially the Queen. I haven’t told her that yet, and I suspect she’ll be quite put out with me.”

“Of course.” Griff’s mind was racing, he hadn’t really considered the implications of the combined blood of Stark and Targaryen, not really, not beyond the generic musings of prophecies and legends.

“I would expect it’s nice for your dragon as well.” The King met his gaze briefly, questioning. “In all the time since the Targaryens conquered Westeros, there has never been a single joining of that house with House Stark. Not once, until you.” He looked at the King’s profile as they continued walking, back to the keep. He lowered his voice a bit in consideration of ears that might be listening. “I wonder, though. It was common knowledge that there was some magic in the blood of the Targaryens, that bond between them and their dragons, their ability to ride them and be their masters.” Jon led them to a great door, split wide down the middle, and the pair headed down a set of spiral steps. “But along the way, everyone forgot that House Stark was the same. The oldest House in the Seven Kingdoms, established 8,000 years ago by Bran the Builder, the blood of the first men still running through their veins.” Griff eyed his surroundings, realizing they were entering an underground crypt, that Jon had brought him to the crypts of Winterfell, the tombs of the Kings of Winter. “I dare say it took a little more than some hard work to raise this Keep, to build these tombs, to raise a massive wall of ice.”

“There is old, deep magic in the blood of the North, blood of ice and steel, the blood of the First Men. And fire and blood in the magic of the Targaryen dragon lords of old. Even before the Doom, many Valyrian dragon lords needed sorcery, spelled horns to control their dragons. But not the Targaryens.” Griff paused as they walked through the crypt, Jon finally coming to a stop in front of the statue of a woman. 

This wasn’t just any woman, Griff realized, this was Lyanna, this was where Ned had laid her to rest when he’d brought her back from Dorne with her newborn babe.

“Does it look like her?” There was a bit of a catch in the King’s voice, and Griff could hear it behind the low pitch of the man who spoke, the question of a boy who wanted to know if he was looking upon the true face of his mother.

Griff studied her. “It’s close, I think.” He turned to the King now, who continued to look upon the carved face. “But this makes her look soft. And she was anything but that. She was the strongest person I ever met, man or woman. And she’d probably have pulled one of those damned daggers out of her boot at anyone who suggested otherwise.”

Jon laughed now, his eyes a little wet, but seeming glad to hear it. Oh, Griff could see that in him. King Jon Snow was not a soft man. He was a warrior, no stranger to blood and steel and war. But Griff could see a bit of Rhaegar, when Jon smiled at the Queen who would become his wife, when his eyes were soft watching his family together again at last. It was Rhaegar who’d had the tender heart, who’d learned to kill but hated it, who’d made himself into a warrior in his own right but preferred his harp to his sword. It was all there, in this man, layered in with a heavy measure of honor, of integrity, sitting upon him like the heavy Northern cloak he wore.

“You will marry the Queen tonight.” At his statement, the King in the North came back to himself, a smile lighting his eyes and curving his lips. 

“I will.”

“You are a good man, Jon. You will be a good husband to her.” He clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “And when the time comes, the two of you, together, you will be the rulers the Seven Kingdoms need, that they’ve been crying out for.”

“Thank you.” Jon’s reply was tinged with gratefulness, with sincerity. Griff looked in the eyes of this man, who’d survived things no one else had, and was filled with a desperate hope.

“You can win this war, Jon. You can protect these people, be the King they need. I believe that.” The King looked at him, not speaking for several beats.

“I’m glad to hear someone does.” He gave Griff a wry smile, turning to leave. “We’d better go, I’ve strayed too long as it is. I’ve got to get married tonight.”

\---------------------

_ **Sansa** _

Sansa was excited, which surprised her. She’d expected to feel some dread, remembrances of her own awful wedding to Ramsay Bolton haunting her.

But they’d had two days to prepare, Sansa and Missandei sewing until she thought their fingers would bleed, preparing a gown and a maiden cloak for the Queen to marry Jon. She’d already gotten a cloak assembled that was like the ones she’d made for her family, the ones she’d made to look like Father’s. 

She liked Missandei, the Queen’s handmaiden and according to them both, her dearest friend in the world. The woman had a gentle, quiet voice, and asked polite questions that didn’t require hard answers from Sansa. She was also a very skilled seamstress, and she had marveled at Sansa’s collection of threads and fabrics, some of which were particular to the North and Missandei had not seen before. It reminded her of when her mother was alive, Sansa thought, sewing in comfortable silence occasionally broken by conversation.

Maybe, she thought, that’s why she was more excited than anxious. She was still a bit wary, but she’d spent quite a bit of time with Daenerys the past two days, fitting her for a dress, planning for what she would need for accessories, how she would wear her hair.

Sansa smirked, smoothing her hand down another dress she’d prepared. It was simple, dark blue and plain, but cut in a way that would look nice on Arya. If she could agree to get her to wear it, of course. She might not have wasted her time before now, knowing that it’d be easier to force one of the stable hands into a gown than her sister, but she’d spotted Arya a few times over the past few days, and she seemed to be taking a bit more care with her appearance. She wasn’t ladylike, not even close, but at least she was brushing her hair more now. If nothing else, perhaps the fact that her favorite sibling, now the King in the North, was getting married, would be what could persuade her into looking like a woman for once. 

She was a woman now, Sansa had noticed. Arya had stopped being a little girl long before now, but she had a woman’s body strapped down by all the leather she usually wore. Sansa supposed she was going to have a very awkward conversation with her; Arya had seen much in the time they’d been apart, but some things women told other women, usually mother to daughter, and their mother was gone.

That, however, could wait for later, because the Queen was set to arrive any moment to begin to prepare. It would be getting dark soon, and the torches would be lit along the path to the Heart Tree where the Dragon Queen would marry her brother, the secret Targaryen prince. She’d had to escape to the privacy of her room to cry that night, her sorrow for her brother and the life he’d led, never knowing the truth, for her mother and how much that lie had hurt her, and her father most of all, who’d had to sacrifice his very honor to save his sister’s son from certain death.

It made her hate that day all the more, the day that Robert Baratheon had rode into their home with his family of golden snakes and had destroyed her own. Tyrion had reminded her of something though, as she’d talked with him last night, their discussions in the Great Hall becoming a nightly ritual. “They are all dead, my Lady. And you are still here.” He was right. She had survived, and many of her enemies, the people who had almost but not completely brought down House Stark were gone.

A rap of knuckles on the door caught her attention. “Come in.”

The door swung open, revealing a smiling Missandei, a frazzled-looking Daenerys, and a reluctant Arya. Sansa rolled her eyes, that didn’t bode well for her planned dress for her sister.

She smiled in greeting at them, ushering them inside then shutting the door. “Are you ready, your Grace?”

The Mother of Dragons looked at her, whatever had been aggravating her disappearing as she looked at Sansa. It was replaced by happiness and Sansa’s breath almost caught in her throat she saw the transformation. The rumors about her in this regard were true, at least. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. 

“Very. There’s much that’s required my attention today, and I’m ready to be done with thinking on it for now.” Missandei pulled out a chair near the vanity against Sansa’s wall, waiting until the Queen was seated to start undoing the complicated framework of braids that Sansa had come to think of as part of Daenerys’s uniform.

Arya hopped up onto Sansa’s bed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin up on her hands. “Are you nervous?”

Daenerys smiled at her, getting the sort of dreamy look on her face that one wouldn’t have imagined would be possible for a woman who commanded armies and dragons. “About marrying Jon? Not at all. I’m more nervous about the Northern Lords arriving tomorrow, to be honest, but I don’t want to think to hard on any of that right now. I’m not going to have any worries tonight, if that’s possible.” She paused, as if considering whether to continue. “I have had two husbands. One I was sold to, one I married for strategy.” Now her smile was back, eyes going soft. “I never imagined I would be marrying someone that I love. I am looking forward to seeing how that feels.”

Sansa had to smile, the Queen’s words pulled at that little girl she had been, enamored with romantic tales and poetry and pretty things.

“Would you like to see your maiden cloak? I think you’ll be happy with how it turned out.” She turned as the Queen nodded, an excited look that screamed that she would absolutely like to see it. Sansa pulled it free from the form she’d been using to finish it, showing the Queen the sigil of House Targaryen emblazoned on the back, red silk against the dark black fabric of the cloak itself. She brought it closer and Daenerys ran a finger down it, tracing a dragon’s head. 

“It’s beautiful, Sansa. How did you get all this done so quickly?” 

Sansa smiled at Missandei, who had looked up at she finished the last of the unbraiding to give Sansa a conspiratorial smile. “Missandei was a wonderful help, and a few of the girls in the Keep were able to do some of the hemming and finishing so that we could complete your gown.”

Sansa turned again, momentarily unsure of what Daenerys would think, but Missandei gave her an encouraging smile. It’d been the most time consuming task, but Sansa had been pleased at the final result. One of the Queen’s gowns, a thicker, soft white wool, had been repurposed, the bodice refitted to be solid across the front instead of the wrapped or more structured clothing the Queen favored, the skirts full and voluminous. What Sansa was proudest of, though, was the sigil, House Stark’s, that she and Missandei had spent hours painstakingly embroidering on the bodice of the dress, the growling direwolf outlined with silver thread, making it glitter in the candle light. 

She wasn’t sure if the Queen would like it. Jon had never properly been recognized as a Stark, and though her brother was a King in his own right, those who didn’t know his secret might wonder why a Targaryen Queen would wear anything other than her own house sigil or colors. It had been Missandei’s idea, in the end, and the woman had assured her that Daenerys would be proud to wear the sigil of Sansa’s house, that she was proud to be marrying into the house of Jon’s mother, House Stark.

Sansa turned slowly, holding the dress aloft and presenting it to Daenerys for her inspection. The Queen didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked, her eyes growing glassy as she squeezed the arms of the wooden chair she was seated in. Missandei came around in front of her, to see her reaction. “We thought you might like to wear your husband’s colors, tonight.” Daenerys grabbed her friend’s hand at hearing her words, standing to hug the woman to her tightly. Then she strode over to Sansa, grabbing her in a fierce embrace, letting go to run her fingers over the embroidered wolf.

“You have honored me, both of you. Nothing would make me prouder.” Even Arya smiled at the Queen, looking around the room and then freezing as her eyes fell on the blue dress Sansa had prepared. 

“That better not be for me, Sansa.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, looking at the Queen and Missandei. “Arya, do you think, just for one night, you could wear it? For Jon? Your favorite brother? Who is a King and might like that *both* of his sisters made an effort for his wedding? To a Queen?”

Arya cut her off then. “Alright, fine. Stop already. But that’s it, Sansa. And I’m changing back into the clothes *I* like afterwards.”

Sansa nodded agreeably. “That’s fine. I’m sure that’s what your blacksmith friend prefers anyway.”

“Another word and I’m not wearing that dress.” Arya was glaring daggers at her, shooting her eyes over at the Queen and Missandei.

“What blacksmith? Gendry?” The Queen looked extremely interested. Arya said nothing, so she looked to Sansa who nodded in assent.

“He saved your brother’s life, you know. All of their lives.” Arya looked up now, growing very interested suddenly for someone who didn’t care about that blacksmith one way or another. “When they got attacked, Jon said he sent Gendry running back to Eastwatch to send for me, to let me know they were in trouble and needed my help.” Daenerys looked a bit grim as she spoke. “Ser Davos said he ran so hard and so long that he collapsed once he got in sight of the Wall, they had to carry him in.” She looked at Arya now, eyes watching the younger girl’s face intensely. “I owe him a great debt. Without him, I would never have gotten there in time with my dragons. He’s very brave.”

Arya snorted. “He’s an idiot.”

Daenerys smiled. “Many men are idiots, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t brave.”

Sansa watched Arya from the corner of her eye, bringing the dress to hang while she and Missandei worked on the Queen’s hair. Arya was chewing her lip, looking deep in thought. “Are you going to need some help with your hair, Arya?” That snapped her sister out of her haze, a disgusted look on her face, just as Sansa had expected.

“My hair’s just fine like it is, thank you.” Arya snatched up the dress and made for the door. “I’m going to put this ridiculous thing on.”

The three women watched Arya storm out of the room, door slamming behind her. Daenerys looked at Sansa then, about to burst into laughter. “She likes him, yes?”

Sansa smiled. “She does. But don’t say anything or she’ll threaten to kill him again just to prove you wrong.”

The Dragon Queen looked at Missandei then, the two smiling at each other knowingly. “I understand. Now, what shall we do with my hair?”

Sansa walked over, coming to stand beside the Queen. “I think I know just the thing.”

\---------------

_ **Jon** _

Jon wasn’t nervous. Not really. He was just ready to get on with it, to get married, and to take his wife somewhere private. He would try to be patient, though, because he wanted to remember it. He wanted to remember everything about it. He wanted the memory to hold on to when he was apart from her, as he would be all too soon.

Ser Davos stood beside him, waiting at the Heart Tree. Jon hadn’t expected Davos to be so surprised when Jon had asked him to perform the ceremony. It was usually done by the groom’s father or the head of the House, but there was no one like that available unless Jon wanted to do it himself. And honestly, Davos had become something of another father to him, and when he’d had to decide who would perform this part of Jon’s marriage to the Queen, it was Davos who sprung to mind.

Jon looked out at the gathered crowd. It was small, as they’d wanted, just Jon’s family, their advisors, their friends who’d come with them North to fight. The torches were burning brightly, lighting the path that led to where he stood, and he looked over at his sisters. Sansa smiled at him reassuringly, and Arya pulled a face, tugging at the neck of the dress he was shocked Sansa had managed to get her into. It was odd. He saw a familiar face standing behind Arya, saying something to her then receiving a swift elbow to the ribs that made him double over. Now Arya was smiling. Gendry didn’t appear to be so lucky.

Jon leaned over to Davos. He knew Gendry better than Jon did, after all. “How does Gendry know my sister well enough for her to hit him?”

Davis grinned. “Oh, the lad said they traveled together for a time, up until the Red Woman bought the boy from the Brotherhood without Banners and brought him to Stannis. Your sister would’ve been younger then, Gendry said she’d disguised herself as a boy most of the journey.”

“I see.” He watched the two of them, now, trying not to be obvious about it. Gendry hadn’t moved, at least, so he supposed he knew what he was in for staying in Arya’s general vicinity. Jon hoped he knew what he was getting into.

Davos cleared his throat, then, getting Jon’s attention and nodding to the end of the torchlit trail, and then there was nothing else in the world. His vision narrowed to just her, more beautiful than she’d ever looked to him. Her hair, usually braided and bound, was done in a Northern style, thin braids trailing back, hair loose and curled at the ends, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around those waves, already intimately aware of how soft it was, how it looked sliding over her bare skin. She was wearing a sable cloak, a maiden’s cloak. He knew it would bear the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red as blood in a field of black. What he hadn’t expected, wouldn’t have dreamed of, was the Direwolf of House Stark emblazoned across the bodice of her dress. It made his throat close a bit, made him choke up that she would honor his house in such a way, honor his mother’s family in such a way. Had he loved her this much before this moment? He wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, breathing deep to try to collect himself before he did something embarrassing.

There was perfect silence, heavy and thick, and that superstitious part of Jon that had held to the Old Gods as Ned Stark had hoped that meant they were watching. That they would bless this marriage, keep them alive while they fought to save the lives of the Realm. Davos spoke then, Jorah looking at Jon’s Hand, but Jon looking only at Daenerys. She was smiling at him, soft and sweet, making him ache to kiss her. 

“Who comes? Who comes before the Gods?”

Jorah’s voice carried through the Godswood. “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, true born and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon opened his mouth, praying his voice wouldn’t break. “I, Jon Snow of House Stark, King in the North. I claim her. Who gives her?” Thank the Gods, his voice had sounded as he’d hoped, strong and proud. 

Jorah looked at Jon then, just a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Jorah of House Mormont, sworn sword of the Queen.” Jorah turned to Daenerys then, and Jon could feel his palm itch, knowing it would soon hold hers.

“Queen Daenerys, will you take this man?”

For a heartbeat, just a moment, it struck Jon that this could all be some wonderful dream and he was about to wake up. But then the Queen turned from Jorah and looked at Jon, calm and regal, smile wide and teeth flashing at him in the torchlight.

“I take this man.” Then she reached her hand into his, and he grasped it, as tightly as she held his, and he led her to the base of the Heart Tree. They knelt together, in submission to the Old Gods, praying silently. Jon did not know what she was communicating, but he merely willed the same phrase over and over again, to whichever Gods might be listening.

_Just let me keep this._

He raised his head, looking over at Dany as she raised hers. Oh, he burned to kiss her, and he’d been in her arms enough to know what the heat in her gaze meant as well. He stood, helping her up, and then pulling off his cloak, big and heavy with furs. He placed it over her shoulder, smiling as it seemed to swallow her up. There was no resisting it anymore, and he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly in front of everyone, for a bit longer than was probably appropriate. 

Then, he swept her up in his arms, carrying his bride down the trail glowing with torch fire to the cheers of their friends and his family, and she laughed sweetly, bringing her head up to give him a kiss as they headed for the feast.

A flash of white caught his eye, and then here was Ghost trotting along at his side, Dany’s faithful shadow now more than Jon’s. “Gods. He’s going to steal your food, Dany.”

She brought her arms up around his neck now, and he tightened his arms around her as she raised her brow. “That’s alright. I’ll just steal yours.”

\-----------------

_ **Arya** _

Arya was on the roof of the Keep when Gendry tracked her down, looking irritating in a way that made her want to keep looking at him. She only gave him a brief glance, though, turning back to watch the dragons up on the rise in the moonlight. 

“What do you want?” 

Gendry didn’t say anything at first, looking with interest at the dragons as well. “The King asked me to make sure you weren’t out here stabbing anyone. Said he’d made you promise not to unless you checked with him first.”

Arya huffed, pulling the Catspaw dagger out of the sheath at her waist. She already managed to get rid of that stupid dress, thank the Gods. She couldn’t imagine the shit Sansa would give her if she caught her up here with Gendry still dressed like that. “I haven’t decided if I’m following that rule yet.”

She looked over at him, now, and thought that his eyes were awfully blue and she hated blue eyes most of all. Yes, she hated them very much. Especially his.

“What are you really doing out here?”

He leaned against a battlement. “You asked me a few days ago what happened to me, but you didn’t tell me what happened to you. After that priestess took me, I mean.”

Arya ran her tongue across her teeth, considering. “It’s a long story.”

Gendry sighed. “I’m sure it is, but I told you. Fair is fair, Arya. Get on with it.”

She glared at him for a minute but he glared right back. Fine, if he wanted to hear it, she’d tell it, not all of it, but the most disturbing parts. He was asking for it.

“The Hound took me. After you left with that Red Woman. He was going to sell me back to my Mother and Robb, my brother. He was King in the North then.” She looked him directly in the eyes, daring him to look away as she told him the next part. “Do you know what happened when we got there? They’d already sliced my mother’s throat open, already murdered my brother’s pregnant wife, my brother’s bannerman. All guests in their home.” Now she walked right in front of him. “But that wasn’t the worst part, Gendry. Do you know what the worst part was?” He shook his head once, not breaking eye contact, his stare serious. “The Freys and Lannisters killed my brother’s direwolf, Grey Wind. Then they sewed Grey Wind’s head onto my brother’s dead body and put him on his horse. They led that horse around the keep, chanting ‘The King in the North’. I don’t know how long they did it, because the Hound took me and left.”

He look horrified, and a little sad, and that irritated her to because she could see him clenching his hands and she wondered what they might feel like and she thought she’d like to see what he thought about the justice she delivered the Freys.

“I paid them a visit, Gendry, when I came back to Westeros. House Frey, I mean. The murderers who killed my family, and their banners. Who desecrated my brother’s body. Can you guess what I did?”

Gendry shook his head once more, but spoke for the first time since she’d begun her tale. “Hopefully killed those fuckers.”

Interesting. “You’re right. House Frey does not exist anymore. I did kill those fuckers, every last one who had a hand in the Red Wedding.” Now she walked away, back to where she’d been standing when he climbed up, looking back out at the dragons. “But how I killed them explains where I was this whole time, what I was doing.” She could feel his eyes on her, and she wished he’d been horrified by now, and had already left, because the fact that he hadn’t made her face feel a little warm and it was all so stupid.

She turned when he didn’t speak, and saw him looking at her, shaking his head. “You can’t end a fucking story like that, Arya, hells. You don’t tell many stories, do you?”

She smirked at him, then wiped it off her face when he did smiled too. “Fine. I was in Braavos, at the House of Black and White.”

He came a bit closer, arms crossed across his chest. His stupid muscles on his stupid forearms were well defined from swinging that blacksmith’s hammer. “What’s the House of Black and White?”

“A place that trains you to become a killer. A very good one. They teach you all sorts of different ways.” She sighed. “But I’ve found the best way to kill an entire house is to poison the wine.” She looked at him then, expecting to see the horror she’d found on Sansa’s faces, but it wasn’t there. He almost looked proud of her.

“Doesn’t that disturb you? It tends to disturb most people.” She narrowed her eyes as he looked at her, a bit confused. He really was an idiot.

“Why? You avenged your family. That’s not disturbing, Arya.” He was standing facing the same direction as she was now, neither of them looking at each other. “I’d kill someone like Cersei Lannister just for being such an evil cunt. Killed a few of her guards in King’s Landing. Felt pretty good, I wasn’t sure how that hammer would swing but it ended up being pretty balanced.”

“Maybe you’re the disturbed one, not me.” Gendry shrugged at her statement, not seeming bothered at all.

“Maybe. Or maybe the world’s full of terrible shit people sometimes, and the only way to protect yourself or your family is to be ruthless enough to kill people that need killing. Not everybody’s got the stomach for it.” Gendry looked at her with a half-smile then turned back to look at the dragons.

“You want to know how I did it, then? How I was even able to get into House Frey, let alone gather everyone involved in my family’s murders and get them to drink the wine I poisoned?” He started to reply but she stopped him. “Be sure about this. You really might not want to know.”

“Tell me tomorrow. Your brother’s sword is ready, come pick it up.” He started to walk away, looking over his shoulder and laughing. “You didn’t hit me this time, Arya, maybe you don’t hate me after all.”

“Fuck off.” She waited ‘til he disappeared, his laugh which was annoyingly nice echoing around the stone surrounding her.

She stood, deciding she’d go back to Jon’s wedding feast and make sure no one was making choices she would have to kill them for in their drunken states.

She felt frustrated but not in a way she was used to. Her chest felt achy and she felt like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. But in her mind a good idea seemed to be touching his arm to see if it was as firm as it looked. 

  
  
Chapter 14: The Living or the Dead  
Summary:

Consummation, and the Northern Lords 

Only D/J POVs this chapter, but our next should feature a star studded line up of Gendry, Sansa, Griff and the one and only Ser Davos, that slick motherfucker.

  
  
End Notes:

So, after a week of delay, I have brought you this chapter, with the promise of more in the next day or two. If you've ever tried to write smut when your in-laws have arrived and decided to stay with you for the weekend without calling first, and you can hear your mother-in-law going through your kitchen drawers and being a judge-y asshole then you know my pain over the past three days. :)

*Just a note, for show-only readers - the Pact of Ice and Fire is not my creation, it's a real event that took place during the Targaryen civil wars, one bonus extra to the tale being that it's rumored that Vermax laid a clutch of eggs deep in the crypts of Winterfell. But, you know, I'm sure that's just a rumor.

  
  


**Daenerys**

“Jon.” Daenerys was loathe to speak above a whisper, not wanting to break the spell he was weaving on her skin, his lips pressing kisses across her stomach and up her ribs, one by one. He tilted his head up, looking at her with eyes full of wonder, hunger, love. They’d managed to slip out of the feast relatively unnoticed, only Ser Davos spotting them as they left and giving Jon a knowing grin as he waved them out. They were unhurried, the both of them tonight, and she wondered if he was as awestruck as she was to actually be here, now, married. Now he was hers in everyone’s eyes, now he belonged to her in every way he possibly could, and it was so rare that she got the things she wanted without an enormous amount of blood or fire or sacrifice that a part of her couldn’t believe they’d actually managed to do it.

“I’m busy, Dany.” He whispered the words against her skin, now going back to his task of kissing all of her skin that he could. She smiled, bringing a hand to his hair and tunneling her fingers through it as he kissed his way between her breasts, making her squirm a bit at the contact so close to where he knew she wanted him to go. She was not going to rush him; this was going to be her last wedding night for the rest of her life, that was something she had sworn to her reflection when she’d awakened that morning. She wanted to remember every single minute of tonight, so fully and in such detail that it would overwhelm the memory of the others she had experienced. Now, she was here in his bed, as naked as he was, and for this wedding night there was no fear in her heart.

“I am your wife now.” His lips pressed against her collar bone now, and he did not lift his head again until he had kissed the entire length of it. He finally looked at her once more, eyes serious and determined.

“It does not seem real.” His voice was as quiet as hers, and he pressed kisses up the column of her throat until he reached her ear. “I am not used to getting the things that I want.” She closed her eyes as he kissed his way across her cheek, savoring the touch, until she could feel his breath on her mouth, waiting. Daenerys opened her eyes to find his face hovering above hers, and she leaned up to nip at his lip as he smiled.

“You are my husband.” She’d barely gotten the words about before his lips her on her again, opening hers immediately to feel the demanding press of his tongue seeking her own. She moaned into his mouth, bringing her palms to slide up his back and over his strong shoulders, marveling again at the defined muscles he hid beneath all those layers. They would travel somewhere warm when this was over, she thought. She wanted to see him in summer, full sun and dry heat, where the only clothing they would need would barely preserve their modesty.

Jon released her lips then, pressing his forehead to hers. “I am indeed.” He slipped back down her body then, resuming those soft, light kisses to all the skin he could reach, but still avoiding everywhere she desperately wanted those lips.

Dany moaned, growing a bit frustrated with the delay. “You wicked man, torturing me like this.” She watched his hands, those hard rough hands of a warrior, those hands that had brought his enemies the edge of his blade, as they smoothed down her sides to her hips. She couldn’t help but arch against his mouth, his lips dragging over the skin above her curls, both of her hands now in his hair, fingers threaded through.

He smiled against her skin as she whimpered, his mouth changing direction to skate along her hip bone and down her thigh, hands still sliding and smoothing their way down to her knees then her calves. “What a terrible thing to say to your husband on your wedding night.” He laughed at her growl in response, now kneeling before her on the bed as she tossed her head against the pillows. She sucked in a breath as he lifted her leg by the ankle, placing her foot on his shoulder and rubbing that calloused palm up and down the length of her leg teasingly.

She could see him now, the scattered flicker of candles and the glow of the fire the only light to be had in the room, but it was enough. Her eyes trailed down that strong chest, the scars that marked him as fierce, determined, unstoppable even by death itself. Dany couldn’t stop the moan that erupted as she saw his cock, hard and proud, that thick length the very thing she ached to feel inside her. She brought her prone leg up, toes teasing along his chest, sliding along the defined muscles of his torso to hook around his back, bending her knee and trying to pull him closer. He narrowed his eyes at her for trying to end his game, but she merely tilted her hips at him, knowing he could surely see how aroused she was for him, how ready, thighs damp with her want.

Daenerys sighed in relief as he finally took mercy on her, bringing her foot back down from his shoulder and guiding it around his waist himself to let her lock her ankles together, trapping him. “You’ve caught me now. Am I your prisoner, my beautiful Queen?” His voice was gloriously low, almost scraping out as he moved over her, still held firm by her legs, not waiting for a response as he flicked his tongue across her nipple. She cried out sharply, finally getting that sweet wet pleasure of his tongue and lips and teeth and feeling herself tremble with it, fighting to speak at all as he stopped holding back altogether. His mouth and hands moved in concert now, moving between the aching peaks of her breasts ravenously.

“No, my King.” He groaned as she slid her wet core across him, his erection trapped between them now and Daenerys deciding to torture him a bit in return. She rolled her hips, feeling that velvet smooth hardness just grazing between the lips of her, making him as slick as she was. “A prisoner would obey me.”

Jon pulled back, eyes merely slits now, jaw set and breathing sharply in what Dany now knew was an attempt to control himself, to hold back his desire just a bit. She squeezed his sides with her thighs, drawing her ankles in to try to bring him into her, to make him take her with no more delay. She felt herself trembling, his eyes locked onto her center, and she watched his hand come down, grasping his cock and sliding the rounded head of him against her slit, coating himself in her wetness and slapping himself against the slippery swollen bud that peaked out between her folds.

Oh, he was fully aware of his power, now. Her eyes screwed shut from the sensation, her mind only fueling the inferno inside her now as she relished his control of her, his knowledge of her body, the slight hesitation he’d first shown with her now lost to the past. This was her King, the only she would allow to command her body like this, the only in all the realms whose power equaled her own. She did have one tool at her disposal, though, one last thing she could use to get what she wanted, him buried deep inside of her.

“Jon!” Her voice was sobbing, pleading as he continued to taunt her with his cock, only a ghost of a devious smile on his otherwise determined face. She writhed, hips helpless to do anything but follow his touch. “Please, Jon.” She whimpered, opening her eyes to meet his, desperate to push him past the barriers of his control and into giving her what they both wanted. Dany brought her hands to his neck, pulling with all her might until he braced himself on his forearm above her, finally dragging the head of his cock down to her opening but making no move to enter her.

“Please what?” His voice was demanding, his eyes leaving hers to suckle roughly at the skin at the base of her neck.

“Please fuck me. Please, Jon.” He bit down lightly in response, making her shout as she finished her reply. 

“Good girl.” He thrust into her, finally letting himself go, and she barely managed lock her hands together as her ankles were as he set a punishing pace, every push into her fanning the flames of the pleasure roaring inside of her. Each thrust was a moan or a cry or a call of his name, sensation spiraling through her at being taken by him, the marvelous thrill of letting him lead. He stopped, stilling inside of her, and the eyes she’d slammed closed as he’d entered her crawled open to find him staring at her, as he had that first night, that first feeling of being joined to each other, apart of each other. His eyes searched hers, pupils huge and looking at her with so much love, so much devotion that her breath caught.

“You are mine. Forever.” It was guttural and animal, claiming with his words what he’d claimed with his body, what he’d promised before the heart tree, and she just nodded as she arched her neck to take his mouth again.

“Forever.” She breathed the word against his lips, welcoming the invasion of his tongue as he resumed his thrusts into her, his mouth mimicking his cock and it was too much for her, too much to contain anymore, the release that had been coiling in the base of her spine now unleashed as she brought her hands to his back, arching against him in waves as she spasmed around him, nails digging in and scraping down his back as she came furiously. She could feel him tense, his whole body locked except the hips now pounding against her, and she drove herself against him now, feeding his pleasure as she rode hers out, grinding herself against him and digging her nails into the base of his back.

His sweat slicked skin was slippery against her, and she met his thrusts, hips slapping against his as she brought her hand to his jaw, forcing his eyes to hers and whispering “Give it to me, Jon. Give me what is mine.” He was hers, and his pleasure belonged to her now. Only her. She watched it take him, his body arching into hers as he slammed himself into her once more, groaning into her hair and neck as his head dropped against her, and she kept a gentle rhythm against him as he released into her, pulsing inside her, relishing his moans and whispers of her name as he finally stilled. 

Jon pulled free, not going far, lying on his side next to her and smoothing her hair back from her face as they calmed, sweat cooling on their bodies. 

“How do you find marriage thus far, my King?” He grinned at her question, leaning in to place a kiss above her breast, over her heart. 

“I suppose I’ll manage.” He laughed at the gentle slap against his chest, Dany biting her lip not to laugh at him. She propped her head up on her hand and he rolled slightly to lay on his back, gazing up at her as she smoothed her fingers across the muscles of his chest.

“We are the most powerful rulers in the Seven Kingdoms, Jon Snow.” Her finger traced a pectoral muscle and she looked down into his eyes. “I should think there would be none so foolish as to stand against us now.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t think so either but I’ve learned not to underestimate the foolishness that dwells in men’s hearts.”

Dany leaned down, dropping a gentle kiss to his lips and moving back only far enough to see his face. “But they have not stood against us, together. I am Daenerys the Unburnt, and you are Jon the Resurrected. Fire and Death cannot stop us, my love. We will lay waste to our enemies, and we will save these people. All of them.” There was something tangible in their gaze now, something she could feel growing and pulsing between them, power and possibility tinged with inevitability.

“Tomorrow, Dany. Tomorrow we will show them who we are. Together. I have run out of patience for fools.” She could see it, right now, in this instant. The Warrior King at the heart of him, what he was born to be, what he had finally stopped fighting. It was beautiful to behold, it called to the Queen in her, the Conqueror, the Breaker of Chains that dwelt in her soul.

She laced her fingers with his. “Of course, my King. Together.”

\----------------------

**Jon**

They stood on a hill above Winterfell, together, he and his wife, his Queen. He watched the procession of Lords entering Winterfell’s gates, knowing they could all see he and the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, from where they stood waiting to enter the keep. He’d planned it that way, wanting the first sight of their returned King to be this, specifically: he and his beautiful Queen, flanked by massive dragons, his direwolf pacing before them. 

Daenerys looked at him, stroking Drogon’s snout affectionately. “What do you suppose they’re thinking down there, hmm?” She was striking in the morning sun, her hair bound and braided, contrasting sharply with the heavy fur cloak Sansa had given her that morning, made to match his own down to the coloration of the pelts at the neck. Daenerys had stared at it in shock, not moving until Jon took it from his sister’s hands and draped it around her shoulders, turning her to look in Sansa’s mirror. Then she’d snapped out of her stupor, hugging his sister hard and making Sansa genuinely smile, which had been rare when he’d left for Dragonstone. He’d thanked her also, for being so kind to Dany, for making her feel welcome. Sansa had just smiled and looked at the two of them, echoing Ned Stark’s words before leaving.

“The lone wolf dies, Jon, but the pack survives.”

Jon smiled at his wife now, his hand sliding under Rhaegal’s jaw to scratch at the scales there. She looked like a Northern Queen indeed, not at all what these lords would be expecting. 

“Probably wondering what sort of Queen would let their bastard of a King touch her dragons.” He laughed as she cut her eyes at him with a knowing smile.

“Imagine if they knew what else he’d touched.” Her laughter pealed out as she danced away from the range of his arm, his frown of consternation only adding to her amusement. If any of those shits even looked at her for more than a few seconds he was going to have a hard time staying his sword hand. That part was at war, however, with the proud part of him that had been emerging since he’d first been with her, the part that wanted them all to see what he had, what the Bastard of Winterfell had attracted without any of their birthrights or noble names.

“Try not to look like you’re having so much fun at my expense, my Queen. We’re supposed to be intimidating them.” She did, finally, schooling her features into that mask she’d been wearing the first time he’d seen her on that jagged rocky throne at Dragonstone. 

He took a deep breath, exhaling and watching them all go, all these Northern Lords who couldn’t seem to make their godsdamned mind up over whether or not they even wanted a King. Jon had been thinking much on the words Maester Aemon had told him so long ago, wondering if the Maester had also known his secret, had known he was counseling a dragon like him. Jon thought he’d killed the boy in him that night he died. He’d thought maybe it had happened when he’d been named King in the North, chosen by his people. 

But now Jon knew differently. He had killed the boy, finally, since he’d met Daenerys, since he’d learned who he was. Since he’d flown alone on the back of a dragon, seeing the realms of men below him in a way none but the woman beside him ever really would. Now he knew what that kindly old Maester, unknown to him as family at the time, had really meant. Now, Jon saw things with the mind of a man, letting go of the hurts and sufferings and grudges nursed by boys. Now, Jon recognized the power in himself, the power of his blood, the power of what he would be capable of if he chose to do so. He could be a destroyer or a protector, a savior or a demon, it was within his power now. But there was no choice, really, for Jon could only see one path. The path of a protector, a King, a man who would risk himself to save his people rather than order others to shed blood for him. The path he would take with his Queen, whose people followed her because they chose to, because they loved her. Because she’d set them free, because she’d proven her might, and she’d brought them all here for him. 

He had changed from when he’d left these shores, a fundamental shift in who he was and how he would lead, and these stubborn Northerners were about to see that for themselves.

A whisper slid across his spine, into his mind, making him smile as he gave Rhaegal a pat near the frills along the crown of his head.

_Soon we will lead them into battle, my King, and they will sing of our glory for thousands of years._

“Yes, my friend. We will.”

\--------------------

Jon stood with Dany, waiting at the closed doors to the Great Hall.

“Are you ready, my King?”

He looked at her, those violet eyes glinting with fire as she quirked a brow at him. He leaned over, pressing a hard kiss to her lips, then nodding to Ser Davos to bring open the doors. He held out a bent arm, watching as she curled hers around it, breathing together for a moment. Gods, he felt strong with her. They’d spent hours and hours with Tyrion and Sansa and Varys and Davos, this little stagecraft being a forte of Tyrion’s and Sansa knowing exactly what to expect from some of the mouthier and more disagreeable Lords. Arya had declined any planning after Jon had explained that they should probably limit how many throats they sliced open in the Hall where they ate their meals.

They looked ahead, eyes focused forward and stern expressions on their faces as they walked together through the Great Hall of Winterfell, towards the massive wooden table where Jon’s sisters waited, where her advisors waited. 

There was a heavy silence as they walked, Jon feeling all eyes on them, clothed alike in their Northern furs, moving in tandem as if they were one. He could feel Ghost behind him, guarding, switching his tail as he moved behind them both. 

As they approached the table, Jon released Daenerys’s hand, allowing her to make her way alone to the seat beside his own, a place of honor. He heard a gasp as it was noticed that Ghost did not stay with him, choosing instead to follow his wife, the woman growing their impossible heir inside of her. He remained facing the table until she was seated, Ghost planting himself beside her and laying his head on her lap. He quirked his lips at her, putting his stern expression back on as he finally turned to face the Northerners assembled before him.

He took a moment to look at each of them, meeting their eyes and saying nothing. Finally, he spoke. “When I left the shores, my Lords, my Ladies, I swore to you that I would secure aid for us. For the North. For you. I am happy to return home with what I had hoped to secure and more. I had hoped, at best, to secure some of the forces under the command of Queen Daenerys Targaryen to supplement our numbers, to give us a fighting chance. Perhaps a dragon or two if we were lucky, eh?” That got a chuckle and low rumbles of laughter out of the group. Good.

“Instead, I have returned to Winterfell with the Queen herself, willing to ride into battle with us along with the full force and might of House Targaryen. She brings all of her Unsullied and Dothraki armies, in addition to her dragons.” He looked out, noting some wide eyes and looks of surprise. “No doubt you saw them on your way in.”

“No disrespect, your Grace, but how can we trust those armies won’t be turned on us instead? She seeks the Iron Throne, perhaps she will start her conquest with the North.” Jon ground his teeth together to stop a kneejerk response from erupting out. He stared at Lord Cerwyn intensely, coming to stand before him. 

“Is it the feeling of the North that your King would bring an enemy into our lands when I have been fighting to unite us all against what lies north of the Wall? Is that your feeling, Lord Cerwyn?” The slender man looked down, breaking the stare Jon had forced upon him.

“Perhaps,” Jon said, moving back to the table and pacing in front of it, looking out at the crowd before him, “you all feel that way. Perhaps you’d feel better having armies from Westeros fight beside us.” He looked around. “Where are they? I have sent ravens to every house, to the Maesters of the Citadel, I even brought one of the fucking dead men to King’s Landing to prove to Cersei Lannister that this was not just some wet nurses’s tale.” He felt angry, now, so angry that these fools couldn’t look past their stupid pointless pride even now. He spat his words now, disgust filling him. “Your countrymen are not here. They refused the call. They will not come to the North’s aid, no matter how much Northern blood they have spilled for their own causes.”

He turned, nodding to Daenerys who rose to join him before the assemblage. “But she has come. She has come when no others would, because she has seen the Night King’s army for herself. She knows what comes for us, and she could have stayed on her island, letting death come for all of us. She could have made her war on Cersei Lannister, reclaiming the Iron Throne swiftly with the dragons at her command.” Dany reached his side, then, beautiful and serious, her eyes travelling over the crowd as Jon spoke.

“She is here, with armies who have never set foot on our shores, ready to fight with us, to bleed with us, to die with us if we fall.” Jon paused, watching the faces around him as they studied his wife, measuring her, deciding. “And that’s a damn sight more than I can say for the rest of the Seven Fucking Kingdoms, my Lords and Ladies.”

Daenerys began speaking then, that lovely strong voice full of command as Jon made his way to the table. He would give her the floor, let her say her piece. He did not need to fight her battles for her, she could do that on her own just fine, had wanted to.

“It all sounds unreal, I know. An army of dead men, lead by a Night King, coming to breach the Wall that has stood for thousands of years and kill us all.” He watched the Northerners as she spoke, waiting to see how they would digest what she said. “If I had believed your King when he first warned me of the threat, I would have come with three dragons today instead of two.” Jon’s stomach clenched at that, hating the loss that she’d already suffered, that it had been at his expense.

Daenerys walked, then, slowly strolling down the aisle created between the two groups, giving each person she passed a searching look as she continued. “They come for you. For me. For all of us. They do not want your lands, or your titles, or your gold. They march, one hundred thousand strong, for one thing. Death. And once we are dead we will rise again, just another soldier in the Night King’s army. And then you will be used to kill your families, your friends, your people. He will march us all through the entirety of Westeros until all of the living have fallen. That is our fate if we do not unite together and fight.”

Jon stood now, ready to finish this as they had planned. He circled around to the front of the table as Daenerys made her way back to the front of the room, her eyes only on his as she drew close. She turned, facing the Northerners again, and he was pleased to see that they had taken her words seriously. Some looked as though they would be sick, some had something akin to panic dancing across their features. He looked at the back of the room, toward Wyman Manderly. The old Lord just nodded to Jon with a grim set to his jaw.

“You asked, Lord Cerwyn, how I could be sure that the Queen had not brought her dragons and her forces to wage war on the North instead of our enemies.” Jon paused, waiting until that skinny shit met his eyes. “The Queen and I have sealed our alliance through marriage. This war is her war just as it is ours.” He gazed down at her now, smiling at her. “The Queen has also fulfilled a promise House Targaryen made to House Stark many years ago, when Prince Jacaerys Velaryon flew the dragon Vermax here during the Dance of Dragons, to Winterfell, to seek Cregan Stark’s aid in his mother’s war for the Iron Throne. It was then that the Pact of Ice and Fire was struck between our houses, for it was promised that if the North supported Queen Rhaenyra a Targaryen princess would marry into House Stark.” It was Rhaegal that had told him the tale, but he’d mentioned enough hints to Sam and Tyrion to get them searching on their own, finding the documentation of the alliance in Winterfell’s libraries. It wouldn't hurt for the North to remember a debt that had now been repaid.

“We *are* the North, my Lords. *We* will lead this fight. *We* have grown up amidst the ice and snow, we cut our teeth on fighting in furs and leathers.” Jon filled his voice with authority. “The North is not just my home, or your home. It is *our* home. It is our blood. It is the only thing standing between that army of dead men and the rest of the realms of the living, and they bring war on the home of the hardest, meanest fucking fighters in the whole realm, the people of the North, the armies they plead for when the rest of the realms fight their useless fights. Now comes our war. I will not yield and I will not stop until they are dead or I am. Now you must decide, my lords. You are on my side in this fight, and on the side of my Queen, or you are against us.” Jon stared down Glover, then the young Umber and Karstark, then Cerwyn, eyes catching Lyanna Mormont’s as he almost shouted at them all. “You fight for the living, you fight under my command, and you fight so that you, and your children, and your families will live to see another generation be born, or you go back to your keeps and hide, like green boys ‘til the dead finally find you.”

Jon held out an arm then, seeing the hand of his Dragon Queen wrap around it, eyes catching hers and feeling warmed by the pride in the depths of hers.

They walked together, again, towards the great doors at the back of the hall, cloaks flapping as they moved, letting the gathered crowd stare at their backs as they left. 

“You have ‘til morning to decide who you fight for.” Jon let the declaration ring out in the hall, then motioned for the doors to open, stepped through with his Queen, and left out into the cold morning air. 

  
  
Chapter 15: A Deadly Weapon  
Summary:

Bran tests, Gendry muses, Griff and Daenerys go on a mission

  
  
Notes:

Ser Dadvos, Westerosi Wingman Extraordinaire, and Sansa needed to move to chapter 16, but hopefully the Gendry alone makes up for it. :)

  
  


_ **Bran** _

He was lighter than air, a feather floating down, silent and still and unseen. He felt himself catch, just a fingertip touch to the undead beast he’d been focused on for days now, joined in an awareness that reminded him of Summer, but had none of the living warmth he’d felt with his direwolf. This was ice itself, a core of malignancy that could be severed. Yes, he could see that now, the connection of beast to what controlled it, the Walker who rode on horseback amongst the dead army spread before him.

But Bran was at the edge of his power, now, at the very lip of the cliff, and he feared what might happen if he pushed through, if he broke the membranous control and took it for himself. 

This was not the day for such experiments, and he eased his mind back, warmth seeping into his body. He opened his eyes, his real eyes now, and watched his breath fogging the chilled air of the Godswood. They were gathering, the Night King’s Army was, gathering at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Some were there, standing still as stones, as if they were waiting.

Bran was not sure what would trigger their attack, and somehow the Night King remained unseen to him, blocking his attempts to clear the fog that surrounded his presence. He was hiding, and the part of Bran that was still himself shivered in fear. He’d been able to trace the line of the army back through the mountain passes, though, and he thought there might only be a few weeks left before that entire terrifying force was massed together, ready to claw their way through the ice and magic that protected the North from the danger they brought with them. 

And it was not just the dead, Bran thought, for now, in their wake, they brought a great darkness. The Long Night, come again. It was a story, a legend, but Bran knew it was truth, had seen the inky, swelling blackness, the unearthly cold. Even if Jon was able to defeat the Night King and his army, the Long Night of legend had killed many, freezing them in their castles and keeps and homes, Kings and smallfolk alike. 

He needed to warn them, Jon and Daenerys. They would need to prepare. Bran realized, then, why Bran the Builder, his ancestor and namesake, had raised Winterfell where he had, for Bran the Builder had lived through the Long Night, and he’d raised the Wall, and he’d chosen for House Stark a castle whose very walls could keep them alive, the hot springs below perhaps the only protection they would have against the deadly cold to come.

Bran was going to need more, he knew. More power, more strength, more control. He would need it soon, and he must find a way to obtain it before the Night King showed himself to Bran once more. After that, there would be no time left at all. Only war.

\----------------

_ **Gendry** _

Arya Stark was a fucking mystery.

Gendry almost hadn’t recognized her, that day in the forge, when she’d shown up with one of the finest blades he’d ever seen, blades he only knew from hand-drawn reproductions Master Mott had kept in his shop. When he’d first come to apprentice, he’d been obsessed with them; learning all their names, who wielded them, the shape and arc of the blades, the thickness of the pommel. 

The last time he’d seen Arya she’d still been a girl, that was the problem. A tough little fucker, but a child still, and even if he’d hadn’t actually been that much older than her in years, there was something of a dividing line, because he’d been a child no more, even back then.

Arya Stark was not a child anymore, and when he’d turned around, his first thought had been, ‘Who’s sent a woman in here, better get rid’ofer before these twats get distracted and fuck up their work.’ Dragonglass was a real cunt to work with, Gendry had found, and it needed focus and a precise hand for anything other than arrow tips.

Then he’d looked at her face, and in her eyes, and it hit him. Fucking Arya Stark, M’lady in the flesh, but a child no more. At some point in the years since he’d seen her, time had done what it did to everyone, and now she was a woman. And here was Gendry, a man grown, but it didn’t occur to him till she punched him in the gut that she’d never be able to pass as a boy now, no matter how much leather and fur she tried to wrap herself in, and she was pretty. 

In the time since, he’d made it a point to find her, talk to her, get her to tell him what had happened to her, what had taken that fierce little girl and turned her into a warrior, because that’s what she was. She was a fucking fighter and he suspected she could be a deadlier enemy than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms if she chose.

That was the thing, really. Gendry loved weapons. While others were mooning over tits, Gendry was trying to find the limit to the sharpness of steel, trying to make it sing; Forging was Gendry’s music, not the drunk wailings down at the bars in Flea Bottom. 

Gendry had an appreciation for deadly weapons, the curve and shape and edge something he admired while others were fawning over some maid’s figure.

Arya Stark was the deadliest weapon he’d ever seen, and somehow, he was going to find a way to make her his before they all died horrible deaths, because there was no one who would appreciate what she was more than Gendry.

He looked at her now, pacing the edges of her family’s Great Hall, watching and listening as these Lords tried to decide amongst themselves whether they wanted to live or die. He shook his head, a bit disgusted that so many highborns could be so fucking stupid. They hadn’t seen what was coming but Gendry had, and Gendry had seen Arya’s brother, Jon, a bastard like himself he’d thought at the time, lead men against them, had seen him swing that great sword of his before he’d sent Gendry back for the Dragon Queen.

Gendry had sworn his hammer to Jon when they’d arrived back in Winterfell, both of them, really. He had sworn he’d never serve men again, but he wasn’t. Jon Snow was a King, a real one, not some shit who thought he deserved a crown because of a name. No, Jon Snow was a fucking leader, he was a commander, and he fought right beside the people he was trying to protect. Gendry figured dragons didn’t hurt, either, and he’d managed that as well.

Arya had stopped pacing and was leaning against the stone wall now, looking bored and positioning herself near a group who seemed to be arguing amongst themselves. He made his way to her, adopting the same pose, listening just as she did. 

He didn’t know any of these people by name, didn’t care what house they belonged to, but it appeared to him as though the older men arguing with the boy and girl between them must’ve cut their dicks off at some point, with the way they were whinging.

The boy, Gendry thought he couldn’t have been older than 11 or 12, finally got fed up with their shit, and Gendry fought a laugh at the look on the faces of the group when he finally yelled.

“Enough! If you want to go crawling back to Last Hearth, do it!” Oh, that lad had a righteous fury on his face. “And you get your things and leave my family’s home. House Umber isn’t craven, and we will not break faith with the King. Maybe an oath doesn’t mean anything to you, but I made a promise. I am the Lord of Last Hearth and I say we will fight. I will die if I must, but our King spared my life when he should’ve taken it. My father betrayed his family, dishonored our House. I will not. Leave if you are afraid, and go now before I ask him to take your head for the traitors you are.” 

Little Lord Umber had more balls than his advisors, it appeared, but they looked shamed enough that he doubted they’d fight the boy any further. The girl next to him looked at the Umber boy then to her advisors.

“House Karstark will fight. This is my home, and we will defend it with our lives. I will give you the same option Lord Umber has given his men. I will earn back my family’s honor, and I will stay and fight with any who will do the same, but if you will not, then leave before you pay the traitor’s price.” 

Gendry looked at Arya, whose mask of disinterest had turned into the slightest uptick at the side of her mouth, brief but there. She looked over at him, finally, though he knew she’d seen him, and narrowed her eyes.

“What do you want, then?” She’d managed not to sound quite so furious over the last few days, which Gendry viewed as a significant improvement.

“Figured you might need some company watching grown men shaming themselves.” He snorted when she rolled her eyes, which she seemed to do a lot around him.

“Not likely.” She pulled herself out of her lean, circling around to another group, just out of their notice but close enough for her to hear them. This group looked like some old fat shit and a little girl circled by some more whiny fucks, and he noticed Arya took particular interest in the girl as she continued what must have been a very long spell of making grown men feel like fools.

“You swore an oath. All of you. You didn’t bring your swords when the King came for help, but I did. House Mormont did. You didn’t even blink when the Boltons took his home, his sister, and you knew what he was. All of you.” She scoffed at them. “He knows what’s out there, and you can lie to yourselves if it helps you sleep, my Lords, but I will not leave my people to die because I am afraid.”

“Aye, that may be, Lady Mormont.” A bald, bearded man spoke up, probably some Lord by the look of him. “But he’s done what his brother did, married a foreigner, brought her here….”

The girl, Lady Mormont, cut him off, getting right in the Lord’s face and jabbing him in the chest with her finger. “A foreigner? A Targaryen, you mean. Last I checked, Dragonstone was still a part of Westeros. And last I checked, Robb Stark didn’t marry a Queen with her own armies and dragons, did he, Lord Glover?” She stalked back to her advisors and that old fat man, who took her place addressing the men gathered around them.

“House Manderly keeps faith with the King. And his Queen. Has it not occurred to you, Glover, you fucking fool, that if we can win this war we’ll have a Northern King on the throne? Has it?” Lord Manderly, Gendry thought, ought to watch his rages or his heart was going to give out on him. He wasn’t sure he’d seen a man turn red so fast. “Daenerys Targaryen is not her father. She came to try to save us. My men will fight, beside her and her dragons and her armies, beside our King. If I die, it’s not going to be a coward’s death.” Lady Mormont nodded to the old man, and they both turned and took their leave, advisors trailing after them.

Arya waited until the other Lords dispersed then stalked to the doors. Gendry followed hot on her heels, not even really sure why, just knowing he wanted to talk to her before she disappeared on him like a ghost again.

She finally whirled on him behind the stables, dagger out and dangerously close to his chest. “Stop following me.”

She didn’t mean to stab him really, he knew that.

But she might, and he worried a bit that some part of him thrilled at the danger of her.

“Where are you going?”

She stared at him. She stared at him for a very long time, and the more she did the more Gendry thought he should leave, because he was thinking an awful lot about kissing her and she *might* stab him for that.

She slowly sheathed her dagger. “None of your business, you shit.”

Gendry smiled, coming from Arya that was friendly. “I’m going to start getting my feelings hurt with all the name-calling.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. He needed to leave, truly, because that dagger wasn’t pointing at his chest anymore and he was going to do something stupid. “Then why don’t you get back to work and cry about it in the forges?”

He couldn’t stop himself, fool that he was, and he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her before she could react. She was frozen, at first, and he was about to back off and beg her not to kill him, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tentatively at first but by the time she’d parted her lips for his tongue she seemed to have figured things out.

He pulled back, breaking the kiss after a few moments, unsure what to do now. She stared at him for a minute, and the next thing he knew he was on his ass, and she was staring down at him, having shoved him as hard as she could.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” She spat the words at him then took off, but this time he did not follow. She might as well have told him she loved him.

\---------------

_ **Griff** _

He was surprised when the Queen approached him, asking him to accompany her for a bit while the King saw to other matters, but he welcomed the opportunity to speak to her alone.

“Congratulations on your wedding, your Grace.” Griff smiled, the flash of a wide-mouthed grin that overtook Daenerys’s face a radiant thing indeed. “It’s a joy to see, you know. People marrying because they love each other.” Griff sighed a bit and held out his elbow, her small hand snaking out from under her very Northern cloak. “And your brother would have been in absolute fits to see his sister dressed out like a real Northerner.” 

She laughed at this, leading him more than he was leading her now, obviously aware of their destination. “The irony is not lost on me, Griff.”

They walked slowly, and Griff was glad not to be rushing off, because there were some things this girl might like to know about the brother who’d died before she was born, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any.

“When he was young, Rhaegar refused to pick up a sword. Did you know that?” The Queen shook her head, eyes asking him to continue.

“Oh, how he loved to read. And he read everything in the Red Keep, I’m sure of it. I thought he’d make a Maester, because he certainly didn’t want to be a warrior. Or a King, for that matter.” Griff chuckled, steering Daenerys out of the way of the dragonglass cart blocking part of their path.

“Ser Barristan Selmy was in my company for a time. He said Rhaegar was an excellent fighter, but he didn’t like killing.” Daenerys was looking at him expectantly, with Rhaegar’s eyes, violet and flashing.

“That’s the right of it. Killing wasn’t something he gloried in. He did what was necessary, to be sure, but he wasn’t the sort to go out looking for a fight.” Griff cut his eyes to her, smirking. “But I dare say some learned the hard way not to bring the fight to him.”

Daenerys cast her eyes to the sky, her gentle smile wistful. “That sounds like Jon.”

“Perhaps some things are just in the blood.” He patted her hand as she led them still onward, nearing the doors he’d passed through with Jon on his wedding day.

“The crypts?” He asked, head tilted towards the entrance.

“There’s something I need to do.” Her voice was quiet, firm, and so Griff pressed no further, determined to aid her in whatever this mysterious task might be.

They were both silent as they entered, candles glinting light off hair of silver and red, and she drew them to a stop before Lyanna’s tomb. The Queen took a deep breath, then released his arm and turned to face him.

“I had a dream, Griff, about Jon’s mother. About her tomb.” She looked hesitant, as if she expected him not to believe her, but Griff knew about Targaryen dreams. Rhaegar had dreamed as well, and sometimes those dreams came true.

“What did you see?” Surprised flashed across her face for a moment, but the she licked her lips and looked at the stone face of Lyanna Stark.

“Her. She was standing here, where we are now. She said I must bring Jon here, that there was something here for him. She seemed insistent.” Daenerys paused, head bowed. She looked at him, biting her lips, a look of shame painting her features. “I haven’t told Jon yet. If I was wrong, if it was just a dream…”

Griff finished her sentence. “…you didn’t want to get his hopes up that the mother he hadn’t known had left him some sort of secret treasure only to find nothing at all.” She had a heart of kindness, like her mother, and Griff wished for the thousandth time that their families still lived to see what they’d become, this King and Queen, who’d suffered so much in such short lives.

She nodded, seeming relieved that he’d understood. Griff looked around, finding a candle suitable for carrying, and did a slow circuit around Lyanna’s tomb. “If Ned hid something here he’d hide it well, that’s for certain.” He checked his head to the deceased Lord’s statue nearby. “People always underestimated him, you know. Honest Ned, so quiet and stoic. They forgot he was a wolf, as well, and wolves are more cunning than people would believe when it comes to protecting their families.” He lowered his hand, examining the back of Lyanna’s form, passing the candle over the carved, full skirts of the dress she wore. She’d hate that, he knew it, Lyanna had hated dresses as a rule because they were awful to ride in. It made him wonder all the more why Ned would have commissioned this statuary the way he had. 

Griff’s gasp brought Daenerys over to his side, as the reasoning for this form, the Wild Wolf of Winterfell dressed as a maiden fair, was revealed by the small shadow of a seam at the base of her skirts. That crafty brother of hers had indeed hidden something here. He ran his fingers along the seam, barely visible but the for angle he’d caught with the candlelight. It was fine, but it was there, and the shape his fingertips revealed suggested a false back, something that would lift away to reveal a chamber within.

There was an indentation, there, right along the far edge, something that would allow it to be pried away, but it was far to small to angle a sword behind and Griff carried no dagger.

“Something fits it, here.” Daenerys looked where Griff pointed, tracing her own finger across the edge and nodding her agreement. 

“Something small.” The Queen’s words were hushed as she went back to the front of the statue. Griff stood as well, searching for another hiding place, perhaps some niche or groove that held the key.

Daenerys gasped then, eyes going wide as she whispered, “Take my hand, girl.” Griff watched as her small pale hand crept up to the stone one resting on Lyanna’s shoulder, her fingers snaking behind the palm. Her smile was victorious as she brought her fisted palm between them, revealing what Ned had hidden in his sister’s own, a small metal T-shaped key that looked grooved at the bottom, the same as what he’d felt moments ago.

She passed it to him, to his great surprise. “You knew her. Let us see what she has left for her son.”

Griff knelt by the statue, trying to stop his hands from shaking, excitement and anticipation twisting in his stomach. He felt the tip catch and pushed, the plate of lighter weight than the stone surrounding it and moving forward then out. The sellsword set it aside, marveling at the paint on it’s outer face, cleverly stained to look like stone, revealing it’s wooden nature on the underside.

“Hand me the candle, your Grace.” He held out his hand and the Queen passed it to him, and Griff brought the light forward to reveal the chamber within. The light illuminated the cavity, and for a moment, Griff forgot to breathe, not even sure if he could, because he could see Rhaegar’s harp, silver and gleaming, dragon heads arching from the frame, and he’d thought it was lost. For more than twenty years the former Lord of Griffin’s Roost had mourned his best friend’s prized possession, the one thing he took everywhere, the thing that gave him solace.

His hands were shaking, but he pushed forward, grasping the frame and pulling it gently clear of the statue, presenting it to the sister of the man who’d loved this harp more than almost anything else in the world.

“This was your brother’s.” 

Daenerys gasped herself now, recognition flaring, and it warmed his heart to see her take it, gently, cradling it to her chest as her eyes welled with unshed tears.

Griff turned back to the cavity, giving her a moment of privacy as he explored the depths further.

He hadn’t expected to be moved as he was with the harp, but as he pulled out the large, stitched leather pouch, he felt his heart begin to pound. He knew what this was, and he knew what was in it. Griff laid a palm flat on it, remembering it tucked under his friend’s arm, steadily filling with journal after journal of Rhaegar’s ‘research’ as he’d called it. If he had not already experienced what he had on this journey he might have been floored by the destiny of it all, the fate of this being here, now, but he’d already been thoroughly convinced that’s what they were experiencing, all of them.

“These are your brother’s as well. Research. About prophecies…the Night King…Azor Ahai. All manner of things.” Daenerys studied him now, not reaching to take the pouch, merely listening. “Perhaps these will serve us well, give us some guidance.” He placed it at her feet, having glimpsed one more items contained within Lyanna’s stone form, something not immediately obvious in it’s identification. He needed both hands, this time, the shape a bit ungainly, so he placed the candle on the stone floor and reached in, pulling out a wrapped bundle in black fabric.

“Oh.” Daenerys’s whisper told Griff she’d realized what the fabric was when he had. It wasn’t just black, it was black and red. It was a Targaryen banner. It was Rhaegar’s personal banner, the one he carried when he travelled. He could feel something within it, looking at the Queen as she studied the fabric encased bundle as well.

“May I?” She breathed the question out, placing Rhaegar’s harp down gently beside her as she reached her hands forward.

Griff handed it over gladly. He was just here assisting, these were not meant for him. These were meant for the King and Queen.

She drew the fabric back slowly, turning the object as she peeled back layer after layer of the aged banner. He was watching her face when she’d pulled back the last layer, and it was her look of complete shock that brought his eyes back down. His blood ran cold, then hot. Oh, hells, he’d done it. Rhaegar had finally done it, the quest that had sent him to ruins Summerhall year after year under the guise of composing his melancholy songs. 

It was a dragon egg. Beautiful and gleaming still after being stored away for more than two decades, white with elegant green swirling the surface. The Queen was crying now, silent tears leaking down her cheeks as she stroked her hand across the scaled shell, smiling.

“Griff?” 

Her question was clear despite the slight sniff she gave trying to clear her tears away. Griff met her eyes, feeling his lips turning up at the joy on Daenerys Targaryen’s face, there in that dark crypt at the foot of the King’s dead mother.

“Find the King.”

  
  
Chapter 16: By Any Other Name  
Summary:

Davos has a bad feeling, Sansa finds a distraction

  
  
End Notes:

Sooooooo....In answer to the never-ending name debate, in the end this story all kicked off with Jon Connington's storyline from the book marrying what I think we might expect out of the Golden Company line in Season 8. As such, I had to keep the show reveal name for Jon Snow, trying to find some justification that worked. Hell, they might not even have talked about names before Rhaegar left the Tower of Joy, but we do know that by the time Ned made it there it was already known that the other two offspring of Rhaegar were dead. If Lyanna knew, I think she would feel as though it were her fault, and had her own reasons for calling him Aegon. I think there's symbolism to be found in the parallels of the Aegon who conquered Westeros and the Aegon who would save it now, so I'm comfortable with that fit. 

Next up, the Bran with the Plan, the Northern Lords decide, and Winterfell receives some visitors.

  
  


** _Davos_ **

The King had a bit of a spring in his step this morning, Davos thought. He chuckled, catching up to Jon Snow as he kissed his Queen and passed her arm over to the sellsword Griff, bidding the pair farewell.

“Very straightforward speech, your Grace.” Davos gave Jon a wry grin as they walked through the courtyard square.

“I fear we are rushing headfirst into straightforward times, Davos. I can’t lead these men into this fight if they’re constantly second-guessing my every move.” Jon’s face was a bit grim, now, and it irritated Davos to see it, another burden weighing down such already heavy shoulders. He’d served Stannis, true, had believed Stannis would be a good king in his time with the Baratheon man. But Jon Snow, the king he served now…there wasn’t a comparison to be made. He’d never known another to be so selfless in their rush to protect others, even those with no love for them at all. It worried him greatly in terms of Jon’s ability to remain alive, but it was a humbling thing to see, particularly in a man so very young.

Very young and very newly married. “So, your Grace, how are you enjoying life as a husband?” Davos gave a low laugh and nudged Jon’s shoulder, prompting a quick flash of teeth and a bemused shake of Jon’s head.

“Just fine, Davos.” Jon turned, furs flaring around him as he leaned in to Davos. “Though between you and me, I coulda done with better timing.” He looked around. “A bit less fighting and a bit more fucking.”

Davos gave a full, hearty laugh, slapping Jon on the shoulder and holding on for balance as his mirth died down. “Oh, lad, that boy I left the wall with’s all grown up now, eh?” Davos smiled, resuming his pace beside Jon as the King started moving again. “She’s a good girl. And you were right, you know.” Jon cut his eyes back questioningly as they started mounting a staircase up to the living quarters. “She does have a good heart.”

Jon chuckled, eyes knowing as he faced forward again, ascending to the landing. “That she does, Davos, that she does.”

Davos let out a short, barking laugh. “I knew it the whole time, Jon Snow. You can’t fool Ser Davos Seaworth when it comes to matters of the heart. Particularly with how hard you were staring at hers.” He followed Jon into the large quarters the King and Queen now shared, Sansa having forced Jon to finally take the rooms generally belonging to the Lord of Winterfell. 

As he watch, Jon reached down and threw open a wooden truck, pulling out some leathers and rolling them together. The King tucked them under his arm and headed for the door. “Up for a trip to the forges, Davos? I need to pay Gendry a visit; he’s working on something for me.”

Davos nodded, following Jon out, smirking at bit to himself. He was going to have to talk to that lad about whatever he was up to with the King’s sister. He wondered if Jon knew, watching the King pace ahead of him as they re-entered the courtyard. In this, Davos had determined, he would keep his nose out of it as much as possible, because he’d heard exactly what the King’s sister Arya was capable of and he quite liked the idea of his nose remaining firmly attached to his face.

The old smuggler brought himself to a halt as he saw Griff rushing over to Jon, speaking in low tones as Davos watched a look of shock and confusion overtake the King’s face. He whipped his head over to Davos, then, gesturing him over, and a knot of worry starting building in his stomach.

“Davos. Take these.” Jon thrust the leathers at Davos, a thread of command in his voice. “Get over to Gendry and get my sword, and meet me in the solar.” Jon’s dark head turned to meet Griff’s eyes for a moment, considering, then he turned back to Davos. “And find Sam.”

“Of course, your Grace.” Davos wasn’t even sure Jon heard him, the two men rushing toward a set of doors as quickly as they could. Davos heaved a regretful sigh, then started making his way to the forges to find Gendry and obey his King’s requests.

He’d find out what the problem was soon enough. Problems always seemed to Ser Davos Seaworth eventually.

\--------------

As far as problems went, Davos thought, these seemed to be better than average.

He crouched before the table in the solar, the room filling as Jon’s brother from the Night’s Watch entered, shutting the door and bolting it behind him.

“Jon.” Davos breathed, his eyes almost watering at what he was seeing. “Is that a dragon egg?”

Jon sat seated at the table, staring at the priceless thing before him, his eyes tracing the elegant green flourishes swirled along the creamy scaled shell. “It appears so, Davos.” The Onion Knight looked up, taking in Jon’s slightly dazed expression, glancing over to the Queen who was perched atop her husband’s knee and leaning over to run a finger softly along a smooth curve of the shell.

“It’s beautiful.” The Queen’s voice was awed. She looked at Jon, then, who seemed to snap out of his stupor a bit under his wife’s eye, smiling slightly at her as she caressed his jaw. Ahhh, newlyweds always warmed his heart. “My three didn’t have a pattern like this.” Daenerys looked back at the egg again, Jon’s eyes never leaving his wife as she continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sam spoke, hesitantly, drawing Jon’s eyes slowly away from his wife’s lips. Davos had to bite back a chuckle. Only a freshly-made husband could be this distracted with a fucking dragon egg sitting before him. “Jon, Davos mentioned you needed me?”

“Sam.” Jon lifted Daenerys up, bringing her to stand as he rose as well. The King held out an arm, waiting for would-be Maester to join him. Davos watched as Griff stood to join them now, a large leather pouched stitched along the sides sliding onto the table. The redhead began taking bound books from the open seam, ten in total by the time he’d removed them all. Davos looked over at the King, who was watching his friend with a slight smile on his face as the chubby man’s eyes lit up.

“What’s this then, Jon?” Sam’s hand crept out to slide the volumes into some kind of order, sorting those that appeared to bear handwritten titles from those with no markings at all.

“My father.” Jon paused, taking a short breath. “Rhaegar. These are his. Griff tells me he was studying some of the things you’ve been researching.” The King’s jaw clenched here, a bit of distaste entering his tone here. “Prophecies, the Long Night. I thought since you’re the most familiar with all this, you might want to take a look at these for me, see if there’s anything we can use before we’re out of time to search.” Davos withheld a groan. He knew exactly why Jon had no patience for prophecies, for Davos was the same. Prophecies were all nonsense that got people killed, got little girls burned at the stake for some misguided belief.

Sam nodded animatedly, the most excited Davos could recall seeing him. “Of course, Jon. Gilly can pitch in, too, she’s really coming along with her reading.” Jon smiled at Sam, genuine warmth in his eyes that crinkled them at the corners.

“I appreciate it. Anything important, you come find me.” Sam nodded, sliding the books into the leather pouch and picking it up, patting the side excitedly as he made for the door and sliding the bolt free.

“I will, your Grace.” Sam nodded and left, everyone looking at the heavy wood grain that slammed shut then turning to look at each other.

“We’re not going to see him for days, I know it.” Jon laughed and looked back at the egg, then at his silver haired wife who had come over to take Sam’s place at his side. “You’re the Mother of Dragons, my Queen.” The King pointed to the egg. “What am I to do with that?”

“Build a nest for it, Jon, of course. You’ll need to sit on it, as well, just a few hours a day, though.” The King’s handsome face grew more and more incredulous as the Queen spoke in a serious tone. Jon stared at his wife for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re taking the piss out of me, Dany, I know it.”

The Queen started laughing then, very hard and very loudly, gasping, “Oh, Jon, your face.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and Davos could see laughter warring with the scowl the King tried to keep on his lips. 

Davos averted his eyes, trying to keep his face straight, leaning down when he noticed something lying on the ground under the lip of the table. It was a book, one that must have fallen from the bundle that Samwell Tarly had finally departed with. Davos glanced up to smirk as Jon just shook his head, sliding a palm out to cup against the egg’s scales. 

The Onion Knight gave the volume another glance, noting the title scrawled in neat script onto the cover. “The Last Hero.” He spoke the words aloud, looking up and holding the book aloft at the questioning glances he received. “Reckon your friend must’ve dropped it.”

Griff rubbed his chin, a tic Davos noticed the sellsword did when he was trying to remember something. He’d almost had it stuck to him through most of his tale about Jon’s true parents. 

“It’s a Northern tale. I remember Lyanna mentioned it in a raven to the Prince, something he might want to look at if he was interested in stories from the Age of Heroes.” Griff looked at Davos. “It was a focus of his for a bit.” Griff stretched out a hand, and Davos reached his arm across, handing over the bound pages as one fluttered down to the table below.

“Looks like we’ve got a casualty.” Davos picked the page up, realizing as he held it that it was folded in half, perhaps not part of the volume at all, but something that’d been placed between the pages.

Davos unfolded it, his eyes scanning the lines as he read the tightly packed script consuming most of the space on the page. “Benjen.” Jon’s head flew up as Davos met his eyes, the smuggler’s word grabbing the King’s attention completely now. Davos continued, watching Jon carefully. “That’s your Uncle, isn’t it, your Grace? The one who was in the Watch?”

Jon nodded, his eyes straying down to the paper in Davos’s hand. “That’s the only Benjen I know.”

Davos blew out a breath. “That’s who this is addressed to, at the top here. Looks like a letter.” There was a lead weight in his stomach now, heavy and dark. He’d scanned enough of the page before he spoke to be hesitant in continuing. “Do you want to read it, Jon?”

He made to hand the page to the King, but Jon stopped him, looking from Griff to Daenerys and back to Davos. “If we’re all going to have to pass it around I’d rather just hear it all at once.” Davos nodded, then looked at the Queen. 

“Your Grace.” Davos handed the letter to Daenerys who took it, her hands slightly shaking. She knew who Jon’s Uncle was, knew he’d managed to save Jon at Eastwatch and had sacrificed himself. She probably also suspected what Davos had come to realize as he’d taken in the first few lines; that a letter from the tower of Jon’s birth addressed to Benjen Stark was likely from Jon’s mother. It’d been a matter of mutual agreement between them all that if Ned Stark had managed to have these items in his possession then they’d been there with Lyanna when he’d found her.

He watched Jon’s Queen now, this fierce dragon girl who seemed to guard him like a mother wolf protecting her young. Of course, she’d be coming by those instincts naturally enough in the coming months. Davos could see her eyes begin to shine with tears as she looked up from reading the handwritten script.

“Are you sure you want to hear it, my love?” Her voice was low and comforting, meant for Jon’s ears. Giving him a choice.

Davos watched Jon roll his jaw, eyes locking with the Queen’s. “I must face this, all of it. The good and the bad alike. I’ll know all of it.”

Daenerys nodded, and read the letter aloud to them all, her voice catching here and there as emotion overtook her.

_“Benjen,_

_My baby brother, how I long to see your face. How I fear that like so many others now, I am not much longer for this world. My love is gone, and I am alone. His Kingsguard stay, keeping me safe, keeping the babe I will soon bring into this terrible world safe, and it is just more blood on my hands. Oh, Benjen, how the Gods are punishing me for my selfishness. I should never have left, I should have married Robert and done my duty. I did not, and the weight of all these deaths is heavy on my soul. My husband, my joy, dead on the Trident, because of me. Poor Elia, and those innocent babes, killed in such a monstrous way…It is more than I can bear, Benjen, for it is all my fault. You must tell Ned where I am, Benjen. One joy remains to me, one piece of my love that Robert has not yet taken, one perfect thing that we made together.” _

The Queen sniffed here, trying to maintain her composure. Her eyes shot to Jon, who was leaning his head in his hands, silent and listening. _“I have dreamed of him, the son I carry, and in my dreams I see his face. I see the North of me on his features, the wolf at the heart of him, the dragon that lives in his soul. Oh, that beautiful face, Benjen, the face of the First Men. I dream of him and I see what Rhaegar has seen, I dream of the danger he faces, the wars he will wage. Something stirs north of the Wall, brother, something of ice and darkness. I understand now what I did not before. In my dreams I see that in our love Rhaegar and I have made something new. Something necessary. I fear that I dream, Benjen, because fate will claim one more blood price for my sins; I know I will not live to see him grown.”_

The Queen stopped, swiping at her eyes to clear them as she read the last few lines in a voice thick with emotion.

_“Send for Ned. Arthur has agreed to enlist a courier to deliver this, and I must trust in him now. He must be protected, Benjen, or all is lost. In our love we have opened the door. I see dragons taking to the skies when I dream of my son. I have dreamed his name, heard the smallfolk cheering it as he takes the throne, for my son will be King of the Seven Kingdoms, and in his bravery they will call him Aegon the Protector. He is House Targaryen reborn, remade, fashioned for war and for peace. His brother_ _lives no more, his sister alike, but he will avenge the wrongs done against his family. Against his people. Winter is coming, Benjen. You must be ready._

_All my love, baby brother. Lyanna.”_

Daenerys let out a shaky breath, looking at Davos and then down at Jon, who had raised his head and was staring at the egg once more, eyes blank.

Davos watched as she approached him gently, sliding her hands along his cheeks to cup them and tilt his head up to hers. She smoothed one hand across his brow, her expression relieved as he clutched her to him and buried his face in her abdomen. The Queen’s hand cradled the back of his head as she gave a gentle tilt of the head to Davos and Griff. “Please excuse us, my Lords.”

Davos nodded, eyes feeling a bit wet as he watched the pair, his heart twisting for Jon, yet another revelation for him to grapple with. He slipped out into the hall, Griff joining him as they quietly walked down the corridor.

Griff looked at the book in his hand, eyes sliding up to grimace at Davos. “Let’s get this book to the Tarly boy, then let’s us old sailors find a drink.”

The Onion Knight held an arm forward. “Lead the way. But we better make it more than one.”

\-------------

** _Sansa_ **

Sansa blew out a breath, relieved to shut the door to her chambers at last, smaller than the ones she’d occupied but cozier to her, somehow. More comfortable to be in. Her head hurt after a day of planning shipments of troops, rations, supplies to each of the locations her brother had chosen, Tyrion being the most useful in terms of quickly understanding the constraints they faced than any of the advisors that lingered at the edges. It struck her that they made a good team, the two of them, each being much more used to the practical parts of ruling that Kings and Queens generally didn’t undertake themselves.

It was nice to have the help, and Tyrion was far more experienced in some of these areas than Sansa herself was, and it felt a bit less lonely to her, this day.

Everyone seemed to have such exciting roles to play, things to do, and Sansa and Tyrion spent hours finding the most efficient ways to transport both food and forces, when they would depart, what they would need to do when they arrived to dig in for the war to come. Jon had spoken with Bran, who seemed firm that they had perhaps three weeks at most to get underway, and anyone bound for Last Hearth would need to depart almost immediately. If the Umbers supported her brother tomorrow they would send a raven right away for those not able to fight to evacuate for Winterfell, and for those who wished to stay and fight to start laying in supplies. 

Bran also seemed convinced that the perpetual darkness and cold the Night King brought with him would prove equally as dangerous, so she and the Queen’s Hand had enlisted Varys and Brienne then, compiling lists of necessities each Castle would need to lay in for extended sheltering.

Sansa sat at her vanity, looking at herself critically before rubbing her eyes. It was nice, truly, feeling busy and needed, that her input was valued. She looked in the mirror again, biting her lip and seeing tears welling in her eyes, as they did every night. She stood, the ritual she was undertaking well known to her now as she loosed the fastenings of her dress, having adopted a style that allowed her to remove it herself. She wanted no extra eyes on her.

Sansa stepped free of the heavy dress, her shift floating a bit around her as she walked back to the vanity, saying the prayer she said every night to the Old Gods and the Seven, to whichever Gods would listen.

_Please let them be gone._

She turned, her back to the mirror, hands shaking as she drew down the shoulders of the pale linen, arms alabaster as she steeled herself and peeked in the mirror, heart flooding with shame as her prayers went unanswered another night.

Sansa was still a monster. She could see the shine of the scar tissue that decorated her back, where Ramsay had whipped her. Where Ramsay had cut her. Where Ramsay had bled her without mercy, always in places that wouldn’t be noticed when she was dressed. “Our little secret, Sansa. You’ll never, ever forget about me. You are a monster just like me now, wife.” She could hear his voice whisper in her mind still.

He was right. Sansa would never be able to forget about him and what he had done to her. Ramsay had made sure of that, just as he’d made sure no other man would ever want the body he’d left his mark on, the body he’d made hideous in his madness.

She looked down at her hand, her gaze leaving the mirror, and she cursed herself for shaking like a child. He may have marked her but he’d made her harder for it, made her stronger. Every night in her dreams she saw those hounds attacking him, destroying him as he’d destroyed so many others, and in those thoughts there was a kind of peace for Sansa. 

Her thoughts turned to Tyrion, then, her once husband and swiftly becoming one of the only people she could stand to talk to for more than a few moments at a time. She wasn’t exactly sure how she felt, but she did seek his company most evenings, discussing things that had transpired since they’d last seen each other, stories he’d read, tales she’d heard while she’d been at Castle Black. She could relax a bit in his company in a way she couldn’t with anyone else, even Jon and Arya. It made her heart ache a bit, to see how Jon and Daenerys looked at each other, how in love they were, because a part of her felt a twist of jealousy, followed immediately by shame. Of all of them, Jon had been the most without love, and he deserved all the Queen could give him. He deserved all his siblings could give him.

Sansa sighed, fastening the tie of her shift in the back and climbing in to bed, blowing out the candle at the bedside. She would sleep, she knew, her mind racing with things still to be done, but she doubted she’d sleep well.

She rarely did anymore.

\---------------

Morning came earlier than she was ready for, and she had to drag herself out of bed at the knock on her door. Arya called out through the door and Sansa bade her enter, her younger sister bouncing on her heels in a way that reminded her of a much younger girl, and couldn’t help but smile a bit at the sight.

“Get dressed, then. Jon and Daenerys want to see us, as soon as we can get there.”

Sansa quirked her brows, puzzled, as she selected a dress and slid it on, careful to keep her back out of Arya’s line of sight. She felt better as she fastened it, her armor on, and hastily arranged her hair in something passable for breaking their fast. She was slipping her shoes on when Arya’s patience reached it’s limits, her sister grabbing her hand and practically dragging her into the hall.

“I’d like to keep this on my body, sister.” Sansa huffed and led the way, slanting a look back to Arya and asking dryly, “What’s got you so excited?”

Arya looked up and down the hall, her hooded eyes examining the shadows before she leaned in. “Davos told me that they found a dragon egg in Aunt Lyanna’s tomb yesterday.”

Sansa’s reply was much louder than she’d intended, and she winced as it seemed to echo off the stone walls. “A what?!”

Arya nodded, her eyes huge. “Let’s go!”

The pair ran down the hall, and Sansa felt a bit like a girl again, a bubble of excitement at the unexpected news. In her aunt’s tomb…that would mean her father would have put it there, saving it for Jon someday. It was bittersweet, the thought of what her father had done, what he’d endured, the enormity of the secret he’d kept. Sansa wondered at times if he’d ever planned to tell Jon the truth, if there ever would have been a safe time for something so massive.

Arya stopped at the door to the Lord’s chambers, knocking rapidly then calling out, “It’s us, you’d better be decent in there!”

“Shut it, Arya!” Jon’s shout in response was followed by the Queen’s laugh, and Arya smirked at Sansa.

Jon finally opened the door after some scuffling and shuffling, muffled laughter turning Arya’s smile into a grimace. “Ugh. I swear if I have to see him ramming his tongue in her mouth one more time I’m going to spew.” The words flew out of the side of Arya’s mouth rapidly, making it to Sansa who laughed just as Jon opened the door.

“Come in, come in.” Jon waved his sisters inside, and they both gasped at the gleaming egg before them, nestled in black and red fabric along a wooden dresser.

Arya walked right up, her eyes shooting to Jon’s as she exclaimed, “Hells, Jon, it’s real!” She started to slide her finger along it, then rolled her gaze back to her brother’s. “Can I?”

Jon laughed. “Have at it.”

Sansa watched, Daenerys joining her a moment later as they watched the dark heads bent over the egg. Sansa smiled at the Queen, a glint on the bookcase catching her eye. “What’s that?” 

The Lady of Winterfell had been properly trained in many arts, as befitting her highborn education, so she knew it was a harp, had played more than one instrument at the insistence of the Septa. But she’d never seen one so fine, elegant and silver down to the strings that ran through the body.

The Queen smiled, walking over and pulling it into her arms, bringing it back to Sansa for her to examine. She just looked at Daenerys for a moment as the Queen held it out, smiling encouragingly as she gestured for Sansa to take it from her.

Sansa sighed. The metal was cold in her hands but the instrument was very fine indeed, the sound of her fingers brushing lightly down the strings lovely and true.

“It was Rhaegar’s.” Sansa’s blue eyes shot to the Queen, who continued. “I’ve been told he liked to go down into the markets and play for the people. Ser Barristan said he loved it, that he loved to sing and play for them, taking the money he made and giving it to places that might need it.” Daenerys bit her lip gently, her eyes wandering back to Jon as Sansa watched. “Does Jon sing?”

Oh, Gods. Jon sounded like a barn cat in heat when he sang, this much Sansa knew. The Septa stopped making him do anything musical at all after hearing him trying to practice scales when they were small. Sansa let out a merry laugh, the Queen’s gaze tilting back to her.

“Don’t ever ask Jon to sing. Ever. Your ears will thank you for it, trust me.” Daenerys looked at her, face painted with amusement.

“Thanks for the warning.” The Queen looked at her then, eyes searching Sansa’s. “Do you know how to play it? I never had a formal education in Essos, so I’m afraid I never learnt any instruments.”

Sansa looked down at the harp. “Somewhat. I had lessons for a time.” She looked at the Queen now, who started to smile slightly. “But this is far too fine for me, I’m not nearly skilled enough to do it credit.”

Her brother’s wife came along her other side, bringing her hand up to Sansa’s shoulder, and Sansa fought the urge to shrug away, knowing what lay under her garments and always hesitant about being touched, as if anyone who touched her would know her shame. She forced herself to relax.

“Lady Stark, would you mind taking it with you when you leave? As a favor to me? Perhaps see to it a bit, see if it still plays at all.” Sansa studied those Targaryen features on the Queen’s face, earnest and beautiful. “I know it would ease my mind with what lies ahead of us that it is in your hands, particularly once Jon and I leave to fight.” Daenerys grabbed Sansa’s hand now, squeezing fiercely. “You are the only one we would trust with it.”

Sansa stared down at the harp in her lap, this fine instrument loved by Targaryen royalty, and felt a thread of excitement. Perhaps she could make it sing once more. Perhaps there was something beautiful left in her after all.

  



	2. Part 2:  Chs 17-21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, turns out this bitch wouldn't fit in one post, so here you go!

  
Chapter 17: Deeply Rooted  
Summary:

Jon ponders prophecy, the Hound asks a favor, and the Northern Lords decide

  
  
End Notes:

Next Chapter - Jaime Lannister sees a Ghost, Arya has a question, and Bran discovers what the Night King has been hiding from him.

  
  


_ **Jon** _

There were few quiet spots to just think at Winterfell anymore, between the armies camped outside and the steady flow of Northerners gathering for the war council, as Jon had now come to describe it to himself.

The only place for respite, to just think and breathe, was usually high up on a nearby hill leaning against the scales of his dragon. *His* dragon. It still seemed strange to him sometimes, that Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen or whoever he was now was a dragon rider, like all those stories he and Robb and the rest of the Stark children had read when they were small.

They never really discussed the tales in front of their Father, because the Targaryen name came with a heavy weight attached as Jon grew up; Targaryens burned people alive and kidnapped and raped. But deep down, perhaps in whatever part of Old Valyria burned inside him, Jon had always dreamed of what it would be like to soar above it all on dragonback.

Now he knew. And it was a close second to everything that was Dany, but it was very high on the small list of things that had happened to Jon that weren’t awful and soul-crushing.

_I shall assume that is a compliment, Winter King._

Jon felt himself smile, patting a hand against the unearthly warmth of Rhaegal’s hide. “Apologies, friend. It seems my ability to brood persists in spite of my recent turn of good fortune.”

_Fortune. A comforting thought. But fortune exists in the same realm as prophecy: far too open to interpretation and the whims of man to ever be reliable._

Jon turned his head, seeing that Rhaegal had brought his great neck around, curved like a snake to look at him, golden eyes interested as the pair stared at each other.

“I take it dragons do not concern themselves with such things, then? Gods know I’ve heard enough about it for one lifetime.” Jon scrubbed his face with his hands, not sure that he could stomach another fable about some hero that was supposed to be him, or Daenerys, or fucking Varys at this point.

_Dragons concern themselves only with destiny. That purpose to which every soul is born. And your destiny, Dragonwolf, has been bound with mine since you became a small spark of life your mother’s womb. Man must fulfill his in one lifetime alone, but a dragon’s soul may know several before their purpose is realized._

“You’ll forgive me for failing to see much of a difference then. Every angle I try to examine seems to point to something that I have no control over, whether it’s fate or fortune or destiny.” It was a hopeless feeling, that whatever was coming would happen no matter what, and there was little he could do to sway it. Before…well, before he’d not feared death, had welcomed it occasionally. But now he had everything to lose, and no way to wrestle fate into submission and to obey his whims and wants.

_I have been unclear. Destiny is the possibility of a soul. All souls have a destiny, and all destinies have several possibilities. I have seen your possibilities. You dreamed of them before your birth, and the gifts of the First Men in your mother’s blood allowed her to see them as well. It does not mean all possibilities will come to pass. Most lives will narrow to just one; the most likely possibility. And possibility is solely yours to control. It is your choices that determine the outcome, nothing else. But destiny is the path you walk to reach it._

“And so we walk together now?” Jon didn’t reckon it mattered what any of it was called, but there was reassurance in what this mighty soul shared with him, comforting in a way that made him a bit more confident in a victory. And a victory that did not depend on him being Azor Ahai reborn, thrusting a sword into his beloved’s chest or venturing out to make a pact with the Children of the Forest as his companions died was much preferable.

_As we were always meant to_. There was a pause. _What is Azor Ahai? More foolish prophecy?_

Jon gritted his teeth. He’d heard it often enough, this tale, and it made him sick to his stomach by the end every time. “A story from thousands of years ago, from across the Narrow Sea. Darkness lay over the world and a hero, Azor Ahai, was chosen to fight against it. To fight the darkness, Azor Ahai needed to forge a hero's sword. He labored for thirty days and thirty nights until it was done. However, when he went to temper it in water, the sword broke. He was not one to give up easily, so he started over.” 

Jon drew in a breath, already dreading the conclusion of this awful tale. “The second time he took fifty days and fifty nights to make the sword, even better than the first. To temper it this time, he captured a lion and drove the sword into its heart, but once more the steel shattered. The third time, with a heavy heart, for he knew beforehand what he must do to finish the blade, he worked for a hundred days and nights until it was finished. This time, he called for his wife, Nissa Nissa, and asked her to bare her breast. He drove his sword into her living heart, her soul combining with the steel of the sword, creating Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.”

Jon fell silent as he finished, mulling it over in his mind as Rhaegal considered. He felt something then, across whatever this *thing* was between Jon and the dragon, a bond of heavier weight and deeper understanding that what he shared with Ghost. Rhaegal was angry. Very angry. And he seemed to feel Jon’s question before it was spoken.

_Such recklessness. The fools who spread this would bring the Doom anew, would sacrifice this land to the same abominable fate as Valyria, and it would be deserved._

“What is it?” Jon spoke at a whisper but thought then it probably wasn’t necessary; Rhaegal had no problem seeing what dwelt in Jon’s mind when in direct contact such as this.

_The story. But for a few important details removed, you have described the forging of Valyrian Steel._

Jon’s heart pounded suddenly, then. Surely not. He looked down at the swordbelt beside him in the snow, Longclaw sheathed but ever present, the sword of his Targaryen ancestors safely in his rooms until he was able to spar a bit with it, to remind his muscles how to swing less weight.

_I will not speak of what was omitted from the process, but to say that Valyria was not the only home to blood magic in those days. But it was the Valyrians who discovered the way to make a sword unbreakable, mighty, capable of shattering the steel of an opponent. Such unspeakable horror to craft such power._

“Perhaps, then, this Azor Ahai reborn simply means one who will wield a sword of Valyrian steel.” The thought, once spoken, was an immense relief. And perhaps it would make sense. Perhaps during the age of Azor Ahai and his battle again the Darkness such did not exist, and the prophecy was meant to suggest how one might defeat such a foe.

_That much is certain. That is the only possibility I have seen. The Dragonwolf will face his foe in battle, and banish that dark old magic at the core of him with the sword of his ancestors, blade ablaze with fire of Valyria and the soul of Old Balerian to shield his back._

“Those are the best odds I’ve ever faced, I believe.” His chest felt a little lighter, at least. Jon spared a look to Winterfell sprawling below him, the constant bustle of bodies and smoke and the ringing of hammers and steel not feeling quite so overwhelming. “I thank you for your counsel, though I’m sure you’ve advised wiser than I am.” He chuckled, self-deprecating, laughter dying at the dragon’s next words.

_I have never advised another such as you. I have never borne another rider that I could speak to. It is I who should thank you, for such freedom at last, to share in such a way. I would ask a boon of you before you depart to subdue your unruly subjects, Winter King._

Jon was flummoxed. What in the Gods could he do for something so mighty and ancient?

_When tales are told of us, Jon Snow…_

_When our story is written and the songs are sung, Aegon Targaryen…_

_Tell them the truth of me. Of Rhaegal, of Balerian reborn, bearing a mighty King into war once more. _

_Of Vhagar, now Drogon, always proudly bound to bear a Warrior Queen. _

_Of Meraxes, once Viserion, the kindest of us, the most willing to sacrifice. _

_Let them come to know of our battles for them, that we fought with our riders to save them. Let them talk of the Targaryen dragons as heroes of the realm instead of the conquerors we have been. Let our souls be redeemed of whatever stains of our past remain._

The King in the North swallowed. He had not considered that for all that his ancestors had demanded of their dragons, that they would feel such responsibility, that they would still feel some desire for atonement for actions done at their rider’s behest. But this request; this would something he would surely fulfill, and his heart was stirred at the emotion that rose suddenly. He understood the need to be known for the good that had been done, instead of the terrible.

“You will be known by every man, woman and child alive now and all those to come if I know Sam at all. This I promise.” Jon stood, approaching one searching eye, and he laid a gentle hand on Rhaegal’s snout. “We will do this. For all of them.”

Drogon chuffed then, as if in agreement, and Jon wondered if Dany’s dragon understood him without the use of High Valyrian, or if Rhaegal was facilitating the great Black’s comprehension of their words. It was a beautiful language, especially when Daenerys would revert to it as they lay together, but he hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was saying.

Jon gave one last lingering pat to Rhaegal’s green scales. “I must leave, or I fear my unruly subjects may revolt at last.” 

_Then there will be only one possibility left for them. And you honor them by giving them a choice at all._

\-------------

The Hound was leaning against the stone wall framing the double doors to the Great Hall. As Jon approached, he could hear the man’s words, said under his breath but loud enough to be heard if close enough.

Lord Glover walked past, and the Hound muttered, “Cunt.”

Lord Manderley walked past, and the Hound muttered, “Fat Cunt.”

Lord Cerwyn, whose sour face was only matched by his disposition, “Whinging Cunt.”

Jon clapped his hand down on the burned man’s shoulder. His head turned, seeing Jon and continuing on just as he had been as the King fought a snicker at the Hound’s assessment of Lyanna Mormont as she passed through with her advisors: “That little bitch has some fucking stones.”

“My Lord,” Jon began, only to be cut off by the man’s gruff voice.

“Ain’t no fucking Lord.” The Hound’s eyes shot from left to right, quickly, and seeing no one approached he leaned towards Jon. “Been meaning to talk to you. About my brother.”

The Mountain. Gods, he hadn’t even looked alive at the Dragon Pit, and Varys had mentioned that Qyburn, the exiled Maester, experimented in ways that were banned for very good reason.

“If I don’t survive this fight, his life is yours to take, you understand me?” Jon had grown a bit accustomed to the almost constant stream of mocking jests and cursing that flowed from this man’s mouth in the time he’d known him, so he was a bit taken aback at how serious the Hound sounded now.

“I’ll see to it that he meets his end, of course. But why me?” Jon had no illusions about how the Iron Throne would need to be taken if he lived to see it through; Together he and Daenerys would reclaim the throne the Targaryens had made, but they agreed that it must be done with minimal casualties if at all possible.

“For what he did to your brother and sister, you daft bastard. If I fucking die, you get some of your Northern Justice for them, if nothing else. My brother is a monster that should have been put down long ago.” The Hound’s eyes searched his, his stare forceful. 

Something tightened in the King in the North’s stomach then. It was all very abstract usually, all these people who’d died before he was born just ideas that existed. He hadn’t thought much of them, Rhaenys and Aegon, his half-brother and sister by blood. But he’d grown up thinking that was his same relationship to his Stark siblings, and it hit him, then: they were his family, too. Hadn’t he sought justice for his family that lived? It would not be hard, Jon thought, to agree to serve justice for his family who’d died.

“That’s a fucking promise, Clegane. You have my word.” Jon held his arm and after staring at it for a moment, the taller man’s hand crept out and clasped his forearm.

“Good.” It was a grunt more than it was spoken. “I’ll keep watch at the gates for any of these cunts who decided to arrive late.”

Jon nodded, eyes down as he breathed deep, adjusting his heavy furs and striding into the Hall.

Those who were yet seated rose, and the chatter of the room died completely as the King in the North strode to the head of the great room, approaching the long table shared by his family, his wife, and their advisors. 

There she sat, his beautiful wife, his Warrior Queen, regal and proud and giving him a tiny smile as he approached. If not for this fucking war this would be the happiest Jon ever remembered being. This *was* the happiest Jon ever remembered being, actually, but the ever present threat of the Night King was a shadow that chased him throughout the day.

Jon strode around the table, taking his seat beside Daenerys and nodding to Davos.

“The King and Queen have asked that those willing to commit their forces and resources to the North’s survival publicly declare their intent for all gathered to witness. I will call upon you now. The King and Queen also wish that you understand, my Lords and Ladies, that should you choose to leave none will chase you and no one will harm you as you depart Winterfell. But know that those who hinder the North’s armies, or refuse to shelter those who may need it will be counted as traitors if the living prevail. And the sentence for such is death. Choose wisely.” Davos gave a beat or two for his words to sink in. 

“House Mormont!” Jon saw Davos give a bit of a smirk as the formidable eleven-year old strode forward, approaching the King and Queen.

“House Mormont fights for the North, Your Grace.” The girl’s voice was stronger than he remembered, he eyes full of steel and her gaze steady on Jon and Daenerys in turn. She focused her attention solely on his wife now. “And should we live long enough, House Mormont will support Daenerys Targaryen’s claim to the Iron Throne.” A brief burst of chatter brought the small girl’s head around to glare at whomever had dared interrupt. “You’ve brought all your forces to help us instead of taking your war South. The North remembers, Mother of Dragons.” He could tell Daenerys was a bit taken aback, her hand sneaking under the table to grasp his knee tightly, and as he glanced at her he could see her eyes were a bit wet.

“House Manderley!” Wyman Manderley approached, flanked by his daughters, his face stern.

“House Manderley fights for the North! And for the King in the North, Jon Snow!” Now the man’s face broke, a smile creasing his features as he looked at the pair before him. His voice boomed as he spoke on. “And House Manderley will pledge any forces that survive to reclaiming the Iron Throne for House Targaryen once more!” The white-haired man leaned in then, across the table, so that only Jon and Daenerys could hear as he whispered. “I’ve thought a lot about our conversations in White Harbor, Your Graces.” He stared at Jon, his eyes tracing over the King’s face. “It’s been years, but I know whose face I see staring at me, King in the North.”

Jon froze, his gaze sliding over to his wife who looked back at him, equally shocked. 

Wyman Manderley just watched them and chuckled. “I am yours to command. And I will see her son and his Queen take their rightful place, I swear it.”

Jon was speechless, and could only watch as the man stepped back to his daughters, escorting them back to their seats along the perimeter of the room.

Davos cleared his throat and continued. “House Karstark!”

Lady Karstark walked forward, her voice a bit thin and shy as she began but increasing in volume as she grew more confident. “House Karstark fights for the North! And for our King, Jon Snow. And House Karstark will honor the claim of the Queen who comes to aid us, Daenerys Targaryen.” The girl nodded to Jon, then to Daenerys, walking back to be seated and patting the arm of Little Ned Umber as he rose at the call of his name next.

“House Umber!”

The boy looked much less unsure than Alys Karstark had, his eyes hard and his young jaw squared and set as he approached. “House Umber fights for the North! And House Umber will fight for the King in the North ‘til the end of his days. I can never repay the debt I owe you, but I will restore honor to House Umber, that I swear.” Jon gave a single nod of his head and the boy gave him a smile now that he was close enough that the other, older Lords and Ladies could only see his back. Ned’s small head turned to Daenerys, now, and Jon wanted to chuckle as the boy blushed a bit before he spoke. “If our King believes in you, then so shall I. House Umber will fight for the claim of Daenerys Targaryen as the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” A grin broke out on the boy’s face now, something devilish that made Jon’s heart ache a bit at how swiftly they’d all been forced to grow up. “But perhaps you can find out King more comfortable seating arrangements once you’re there.”

Daenerys laughed, happy and full, and he placed a hand atop hers under the table, lacing their fingers together, just wanting to touch her and remind himself that she was real.

The Queen leaned forward, whispering to the young Umber, “I shall try my best. He does tend to get a bit grumpy at times.” The boy chuckled before catching himself, his eyes shooting to Jon’s in a bit of a panic.

Jon just smiled and excused the boy, giving his wife’s hand a squeeze and shooting her a narrowed look. “I suspect young Lord Umber has a bit of an infatuation with the beautiful Dragon Queen. Should I be concerned at such competition?” He had leaned over to breathe the words in her ear, smirking at the shiver than ran threw her at the low rumble of his voice.

She waited a beat, watching as Lord Glover approached after being called upon by Davos. “I’m afraid not. You seemed to have ruined me for any other man.” 

Jon drew his head back to look at what he was sure would be a jesting expression but she looked upon him solemnly. “Was it all the romantic poetry?”

She bit her lip and shook her head at him. “You’re the mad one, not me, Jon Snow.”

Lord Glover waited until their attention was on him. “House Glover fights for the North! And House Glover fights for the White Wolf, the King in the North!” There was a bit of an echo throughout the group now, these men and women who’d gathered a year ago to pledge their swords to him as King. “House Glover will defend our people!” The man’s voice was carrying now, rallying agreeing cries as he paced, now looking at the people massed before the table instead of the King and Queen. “House Glover will defend the realms of men!” The cries grew louder now. Lord Glover turned, considering the beautiful Queen beside Jon then coming closer to stand before her. “House Glover will fight for Daenerys Targaryen as she fights for us!” Now the crowd grew louder, swords unsheathing and being held before men who now stood.

Lord Glover turned to face the crowd again. “I got word of a raven this morning, from family of mine in King’s Landing. Whole fucking place is talking about the undead man our King and his Queen risked their lives for to make Cersei Lannister see reason.” His voice grew louder, his pace agitated. “But where are they? The armies of this monster who murders her own people when the mood hits her?” The Lord shook his head in disgust as the crowd called out. “Not here. Never here. Don’t have the balls for a real war, do they lads?” Now fists pounded on tables. 

The man stopped his pacing and faced Daenerys now. “The only Queen who deserves that fucking throne is the one who’s here, risking her life to save ours. Risking her armies to save us. Risking her dragons to save us. And she will give the Seven Kingdoms something it sorely needs, lads. A King who holds to Northern Justice. A King who fights for his people first, not himself. We chose Jon Snow and so has she, and it’s about time prove we are true to our word. Winter is finally here.” He looked at Jon, now, at each of the Starks in turn; Sansa, seated beside Jon and Daenerys, stoically observing the proceedings, Arya who alternated between glaring at each Lord or Lady and glaring at Gendry the blacksmith who stood by Davos, Bran who was focused more on the hands twisting together in the fur covering his lap than what was happening before him.

Lord Glover’s eyes fell to Ghost, who silently rose from his place beside Bran and padded to the space between Jon and Daenerys, sitting upright and proud, looking like a King himself as he quietly watched the crowd before him.

“I’d say between the White Wolf and the Mother of Dragons, we ought to be able to give this fucking Night King a war he won’t soon forget!” The crowded erupted now, swords waving in the air in support, and Jon gave Lord Glover a respectful dip of his head. The man walked to stand directly in front of Jon, the roar of the crowd lessening the attention anyone paid to the King and Queen and this balding man before them. “She’d be proud of you, Your Grace.” He pitched his voice low enough that only the pair could clearly make out his words. At Jon’s questioning, wary look, Lord Glover leaned a bit closer, eyes full of knowing and a bit of nostalgia making the hard man look almost wistful.

“Wasn’t a Lord here of close age that wasn’t a little bit in love with the Wild Wolf of Winterfell. Oh, she’d be proud, indeed.” Now the Lord leaned in just for Jon’s benefit. “But no one’d be prouder that Ned Stark, don’t you forget that. We won’t abandon you, Jon Snow, not this day or any day to come. You call and House Glover will always answer.” He pulled back and Jon was surprised at the sheen in the man’s eye, Lord Glover giving Daenerys a bow and taking his place back amongst the crowd.

Lord Cerwyn stepped forward at Davos’s call, looking nervously between the King and Queen before he spoke. “I know I’ve been a right pain in the ass, Your Grace, and for that I apologize.” Jon saw the Lord’s eyes dart over to the side of the hall where Wyman Manderley stood, arms folded and glaring at the younger man. “But House Cerwyn will not break faith with the King in the North.” Lord Cerwyn drew in a breath then faced Daenerys. “I meant no disrespect yesterday, Your Grace. The North is not quick to trust, but I should have trusted that the King had made the right decision.”

Dany cocked her head at the young man, then smiled. “I have known betrayal behind every door, deceit in every shadow, and so I understand that it can be hard to trust a stranger.” His wife glanced at him, flashing a brief glimpse of teeth at him at his own words. “Your King placed his trust in me, and so I am trusting him. My dragons and armies are under his command, not mine, so fear not. I will fight for the North with all that I have, just as Your King does.”

Lord Cerwyn smiled, now, a true smile, and Jon couldn’t help but remember what Ramsay Bolton had done to the young man’s father. Perhaps Jon had expected to much from people who had not seen the shambling, unbreathing shape of what moved steadily closer beyond the Wall.

“I don’t blame you for being suspicious, Lord Cerwyn. Gods know the North’s been bled fucking dry as it is.” The skinny Lord gave Jon a nod, understanding in his own eyes. It was no secret how much Stark blood had been spilled for someone else’s war. “But we’ve got to come together now, all of us. We’ve got to try to trust each other. As I trust you to keep your word.”

“House Cerwyn keeps faith with you, King in the North.” Lord Cerwyn’s eyes shot to the Queen. “And if we survive, House Cerwyn will fight for Daenerys Targaryen as she fights for us.”

Dany dipped her head in return, stoic as she gazed at the man. “I thank you, my Lord. I am no conqueror. And if it’s any reassurance, my lord,” she squeezed his knee again under the table, coupling it with a slight slide of her fingers up his inner thigh that made him squirm a bit in his seat, “the North has become very important to me. As has your King.”

Lord Cerwyn smirked at Jon a bit more knowingly than the husband in Jon liked, but the thought was smothered by the loud banging of the doors opening, a rowdy group entering and falling quiet as all eyes turned to them. Jon stared silently, assessing; there was no one he recognized at first, but then an old, stout man with massive gnarled hands stepped forward. “You the King in the North?”

Jon stood and extended an arm to Daenerys, who joined him as he made his way to the newly arrived guests. They had no banners that Jon could see, but something about the man’s look struck him as familiar. He glanced behind the man two the pair of younger lords behind him. These faces he knew. He gave the old man and quick grin and said, “I welcome The Flint to our Halls.” Jon gave a look to the sons, quickly, hoping they grasped that he remembered them from their time with Stannis Baratheon’s men at the Wall. They’d joined the effort to take back Winterfell as well, but their father had not joined them ‘til now.

“Aye, I am the Flint. Torghen, none of this m’Lord shit.” The man cut his eyes from Jon to Daenerys before tossing in a grudging “y’er Grace.” The man’s gnarled face turned back briefly and he pointed between them as he said their names. “Artos and Donnel. My boys. Reckon you know that White Wolf, they was just here a time back helping you give that Bolton fuck what he had comin’.”

Jon felt the man’s appraisal on his features, and his knotty, arthritic hands rose to turn Jon’s face to the left and right. Perhaps not the sort of behavior a King would accept from a Lord but House Flint was family, at least for Jon and Sansa and Arya and Bran. Lyarra Stark’s mother had been a Flint by blood, and Arya’s namesake.

“Ahhhh, you’ve got the wolfsblood in you, King in the North, and Flint blood, too. House Flint comes to fight for the North. To fight for our family.” There was a banging on the table once more and a round of hearty “ayes!” from the man’s sons and their party. “And this one…” Torghen walked right up to Daenerys, but he had the good graces not to touch her, merely examining her for a brief spell. “This one’s not got the madness, but she’s got the fuckin’ fire in her blood, alright.” He looked in Dany’s eyes as Jon watched, and she smiled slightly at his words.

“Fire and Blood, the words of my house. And the words I will deliver to all enemies of the North.” Her voice was slightly louder than the din in the room, and her brutal promise won much favor with Torghen as The Flint placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze intent. 

“S’bout fucking time, I say.” The Flint laughed, motioning to his sons to clear out so the other late arrivals could enter the Hall.

There were only two waiting to enter after the rowdy Mountain clan moved further in. An older man in dark green leathers and tunic, hair streaked grey with age but trimmed neatly, a short beard on his face. He wasn’t large, but then, neither was Jon; A young woman that had to be his daughter from those same elfish features on her face, brown hair curly and loose. 

“House Reed fights for the North, Your Grace.” Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch and the Crannogmen, gave Jon a bow, as did the girl beside him. Jon knew the name, of course; Lord Stark counted this man as his closest friend. According to Bran, he owed Howland Reed a debt indeed. His children had been with Bran beyond the Wall, and Jon knew of the boy Jojen’s death. It was the girl, Meera, who stood beside her father. Meera, who had been the one to lead Bran home. Meera, who had taken Dark Sister from the cave of the Three Eyed Raven. 

Bran had told Jon one other thing about Lord Howland Reed, since his reunion with his brother a week ago. Howland Reed had been there with Ned Stark that day, at the Tower of Joy. He’d been there the day Jon was born. He knew the truth. He had recalled the name when Bran spoke it as the bannerman his mother had rescued from squires at that fateful tourney that pushed into motion a series of unknowable events. 

Howland turned to his daughter, gesturing with a hand to the girl. “This is my daughter, Meera.” The girl gave a slight curtsy to Jon, then to Daenerys as well making his Queen give the girl a sweet smile.

Jon looked around the hall and waved Davos over. “Have we any others to greet, Davos?”

Davos checked the scroll he’d been referencing all morning. “None that are here, two more set to arrive later in the day, though.”

Jon nodded and turned to Dany. “Ask our advisors to start meeting with the Lords to review our preliminary battle plans if you would. I would have us speak to Lord Reed and his daughter alone.”

She turned to Meera and Howland. “My Lord, my Lady, I look forward to meeting with you shortly.” Jon watched her hurry off around the table, beginning a quiet conversation with Tyrion and Varys before gesturing to Davos and Sansa.

He turned back to Howland Reed now, whose daughter nudged her father after a moment of silence in which the man just stared at Jon. Lord Reed had kind eyes, but not friendly. Not soft. This was not a soft man, after all; Jon remembered that this man had saved Ned Stark’s life in battle. Jon knew about the Crannogmen, how skilled they were in stealth and hunting, small-bladed combat and archery being areas they excelled in. House Reed also kept firmly to the Old Gods, just as House Stark did, and kept to themselves even more, rarely leaving the marshes of the Neck.

“Lord Reed, Lady Reed.” Jon exhaled quickly through his nose, not sure how to express what he needed to say and just deciding to plow ahead and try not to much it up to badly. He met Howland Reed’s eyes. “I’m so sorry about Jojen. You can’t know how much we appreciate what your son and daughter did for Bran. We can never repay that. But should House Reed ever find itself in need of me, of anything I may do to aid you, you need but say the word.”

A strange look came over the man’s face then, a smile quickly replaced by an expression that seemed almost offended.

“House Reed will serve House Stark ‘til it has sunk beneath the bogs at last, Your Grace. We will never break faith with that blood.” The man’s tone was heavy, meaning washing over each word as he said less than he clearly wanted to in the crowded room.

Jon looked up; Daenerys was waiting by a smaller wooden door that would lead to more private surroundings in which to speak. “Could I trouble you to speak privately? I suspect we have much to discuss.” 

Howland looked up at Bran, who was focused sharply on them now, eyes moving between Howland and Meera. Jon saw his brother’s face grow a bit sad, almost regretful at the sight of the young woman, and Jon wondered what he might have left out of his adventures to the North.

“It would be my honor, King in the North. I believe Brandon should join us, though. There is a matter to be discussed with him that you will need to hear as well.” Jon nodded his agreement, motioning to where Daenerys paused, waiting for them. 

“If you would follow the Queen, I will be along right behind you.” Bran had the ghost of a smile on his face as Jon grabbed the handles of the wheeled chair that gave his brother much more freedom than he’d had when Jon left for the Wall and Bran had been bedbound and paralyzed.

“You seem almost cheerful, Bran.” His brother merely sat serenely, gazing up at Jon over his shoulder as the King maneuvered him towards their destination. 

“Lord Reed has answers I have been seeking. Fortunate timing.”

\------------

It was just the five of them in the makeshift war room that had been created when they’d arrived, and Jon stilled Bran before the fire, confirming with Bran’s nod that he would be fine there. Daenerys was lighting the candles along the walls, her silver hair streaming over her furs as she lit each one. She turned and handed the lit taper to Jon, pointing at the opposite wall. “Your turn, your Grace.”

Howland was watching them from the large round table he’d seated himself at, Meera rising to speak quietly with Bran by the fire.

“Congratulations on your wedding, Your Graces.”

Jon finished lighting the final sconce and joined Lord Reed at the table, relaxing a bit in his chair. “Would you mind just calling me Jon, for now? I’m starting to think I’ll never hear my own name again.” The King looked intently at Howland now. “And I understand you’ve known me far too long for formalities to be required.”

Howland chanced a glance at Meera, who was still conversing with Bran, but she seemed to feel her father’s eyes on her and she looked up, from her father to Jon then back to her father, nodding slightly.

“My legs nearly gave way when we entered the Hall, Jon. I don’t think I’ve seen you proper for nearly fifteen years now, but Gods you look like her.” Howland smiled kindly at Jon, then looked to Dany, who’d taken the seat beside her husband when she’d joined them silently. “I suspect I don’t have to tell you who you look like, Daenerys Targaryen.”

She smiled brilliantly, almost stealing Jon’s breath. “The resemblance has been mentioned once or twice, my Lord.”

The Crannogman chuckled, hands resting before him, and sighed. “The only other time I’ve kept your company this long, Jon, was the day you were born, and the long road with Ned to bring you home to Winterfell.” Jon’s throat felt a little tight; this part of the story he did not know, this was a part of his history that Jon Connington had not been privy to, this was the *Stark* part of his story that still remained untold.

“I know a time of war is not the best time to have all your secrets revealed, but I want you to know a few truths should I not survive this fight with the Night King and his army.” Jon’s eyes flitted from the table top, the wood grain striping the surface, to the man before him. He gave a nod for the man to continue, feeling Dany shift closer to him and take his hand in hers under their heavy cloaks. He squeezed and Howland resumed his tale.

“After the fighting was over, Ned was up the stairs of that tower like an arrow from a bow. He’d heard Lyanna scream, you see, and we didn’t know the cause at the time.” Howland shift his arms to rest his elbows onto the table as well, his eyes growing sad as he looked somewhere over Jon’s shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “I’d checked to see if any of our men survived the fight, then I followed. By the time I got there, she was gone, Ned still beside her bed holding her hand.” There was a shine to his eyes now, married with the grief Jon saw in the depths. “He wouldn’t let go of her hand. I had to pull him away, finally, and then I saw you.” 

Jon heard the man’s voice catch, then; a small fond smile spreading. “What a tiny thing you were, but so quiet. You barely cried, the whole journey.” Howland rubbed the back of his head with his hand, eyes meeting Jon’s finally. The man gave a wry chuckle. “Oh, Ned was so worried, thought there was something wrong. We had a wet nurse travelling with us, she’d been there when you were born, and every day the same questions from Ned, was the girl sure you were all right, were you eating enough, were you sick…” 

Howland’s voice had trailed off as he studied Jon. “He loved you like you were his own, Jon. Don’t think a day passed that he didn’t struggle with what the life of a bastard would mean to you. Don’t think he didn’t know how Cat was. He tried to step in when he could, but the hard and fast truth was this: You were never going to be safe so long as Robert Baratheon lived. Only Ned and I left that Tower alive, and as far I we knew it was just us and Benjen that knew the truth of who you were. Benjen left for the Wall not long after, it was safer for all of us that way.” He reached over and gripped Jon’s arm, tightly but not painfully, his voice intense as he leaned closer. “If anyone else learned the truth, Jon…If he’d told Cat and she slipped in front of a servant, if he’d told any of you children, it would only have been a matter of time before Robert killed not just you but every Stark involved with hiding his greatest enemy’s son.”

He felt his Queen squeeze his arm gently as she spoke. “He never stopped trying to kill me or my brother. Even after I was sold to the Dothraki, he still sent assassins for me.”

Howland nodded. “His hatred had grown so great that nothing would have stopped him, you have to understand that. I don’t know that any other man would have been able to do it, to have everyone believe that solemn Ned Stark’s honor was so very great that he brought his own bastard home to his new wife and son.” Lord Reed’s glanced between them both. “Ned Stark was probably the most honorable man I’ve ever met, but even he had his limits. He would have done anything to keep you all safe. But I can tell you this: He was as proud of you as he was of Robb, or Sansa, or Arya, or Bran, or Rickon. You were his just as much as they were, in his heart.” 

Perhaps this was what he had been missing, in trying to wrap his mind around all these secrets constantly swirling around him. Because Howland Reed, his father’s closest friend, was telling him the very things he’d wished for as a boy; that his father had loved him just as much as the others, that he’d never thought of him as less than his trueborn children, that his father was proud of him. Jon swallowed hard, shooting a look at his wife who looked at him like she knew exactly what hearing this meant to him. She did know, he realized, she knew about his biggest doubts and insecurities, what it had been like growing up the outcast of his home.

Howland sat up now, all wistfulness gone from his expression and he gestured to Meera, who brought Bran with her to join them.

“He knew you had a great destiny ahead of you, Jon. You were always meant to fight this war, you and the Dragon Queen. Your brother cannot remain here once the fighting commences, Jon. It’s too dangerous and he will be far to necessary to risk leaving him in the Godswood here when he must do battle of his own.” Howland turned his body partially in his chair, addressing Bran now.

“You know what you must do, Brandon. And I suspect you realize where you must go to wage your war.” The Crannogman studied Bran’s face, as his brother nodded slowly with dawning comprehension.

“The Isle of Faces.” Bran seemed alert now, his eyes darting to Jon’s. “It’s the only chance I will have to be powerful enough, Jon. The Night King has been gaining strength for thousands of years since he was originally forced north of the Wall. But there is power to be had for me, there, Lord Reed is correct.”

“He will need to go soon, I fear. There will be no time to spare if the Wall is breached. It might be safest to take him sooner, rather than later.” Howland looked at Dany. “You may need to fly him there.”

Jon looked at his brother’s chair, the logistics of trying to take it atop Drogon or Rhaegal something he started to ponder before Bran’s voice cut through his musings.

“I will not need the chair once we are there, Jon. The Green Men and the surviving Children will secure whatever I require. This is not a battle I will fight with my legs. Only with my mind.” Jon caught and held Bran’s eyes as his brother finished speaking, knowing they all must play their parts in this war but hating the dangerous undertaking Bran’s role would require.

“You have to be careful, Bran. Please.”

Bran gazed at Jon, then slowly slid his thin pale hand onto the table, reaching for Jon’s hesitantly but grabbing it tightly. Jon felt tears warming in his eyes; suddenly struck that it felt very much like Bran was saying goodbye.

“I will help you defeat him, Jon. This is our only option. Let me help you win, brother.” Bran sounded more like himself then than Jon could recall, and it made his throat clench that Bran, who’d already known the truth of Jon by the time he arrived, had taken to speaking so coldly and without feeling to those around him; Bran still thought of Jon as his brother, through all of it. 

Jon stood slowly, coming around Howland Reed to kneel beside Bran’s chair. “I’ll not stop you from becoming a Knight in your own right, little brother.” He stiffened for a moment as he felt Bran’s arms come around his neck, the hug light but there nonetheless.

“My Lord.” Howland looked at Jon as he stood once more, the Crannogman standing as well. “I would ask that you and your daughter remain in Greywater Watch once the fighting commences. Lead your Crannogmen to our defense should the Lannisters choose the wrong time to raise a fight against me.”

Howland nodded sharply. “We will protect the North in whatever way you ask us, Jon.”

The King dipped his head and thanks, and Howland held his arm out to Meera, preparing to lead her out of the room. He hesitated, turning back to Jon and Daenerys. “I think we’ve got a chance, now, Jon, with your Queen fighting with us. And I daresay it’ll do my old spirit some good to see worthy Targaryens rule from the Iron Throne once more.”

  
  
Chapter 18: A Lion Amongst Wolves  
Summary:

It's alive! Alive! Swords and Questions and Lions, oh my!

  
  
Notes:

My sincerest apologies for the delay in posting an update. But here we are, together again! Enjoy! Also - be advised: I do not hate Jaime Lannister, but the people Jaime finds himself with in this chapter certainly do, so keep that in mind.

  
  


** _Daenerys_ **

She awoke suddenly, the sensation of a cool hand sliding across the skin of her abdomen startling against the warm cocoon of the blankets and furs piled on the bed.

Her eyelids cracked open, face turning towards the presence she could feel now beside her, and there was her husband, her handsome King, already dressed for the day. The wonder in his eyes made her smile softly as she whispered, “Making sure it’s still there?”

Jon started a bit, his attention apparently so focused on that little bump that signaled a life was growing within her, something she found herself absently stroking from time to time, because in all the preparations and meetings and revelations it was easy to forget, for now. But each day, this babe she’d never thought she’d have grew within her, and she knew this would not stay secret for much longer. The sickness she’d experienced towards the end of the journey to White Harbor had abated on the road, and now, a month past from that day they’d made landfall and met her brother’s best friend, the exiled former Hand of a King who had come with them to Jon’s home, now she knew she was probably through the most tenuous part of this pregnancy. Now this babe had taken root in her, Daenerys, a dragon who’d thought she would plant no trees, bear no heirs.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Dany.” He smiled at her, eyes warm and quiet as he slid the blankets down enough to see the swell for himself as he pulled up the loose tunic she’d slipped on before falling asleep. His tunic, of course, and she had noticed he rather liked to see her in it, too large for her slight frame but perhaps it was just the sight of her in something of his that made his eyes flash every time he saw her dressed in such a way.

Daenerys just smiled, watching his rough hand slide over his growing child, a son or daughter who would carry on their name, who would be the first step towards ensuring that the world she and Jon sought to create would endure. 

Four dragons, she thought, hand sweeping up to curl into the hair at the back of his neck as he lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her skin then turning his head to look up at her, his cheek resting against the swell as he looked up at her. “There’s really a baby in there.”

Dany grinned. “Yes, Jon.” She trailed her fingers across his cheek. “I asked your friend Sam to check me today. He was rather embarrassed, said he would bring his wife along, that she knew more than he ever would about birthing babes.” Jon chuckled against her skin, the vibration tickling her and making her giggle as he pulled the hem of the tunic back down.

“Oh, I imagine so. Gilly’s a good person, you can trust her. Sam too, of course.” Jon gave her a serious look, flinty eyes locking onto hers. “There is no one I would trust more with the life of my wife and my child than Samwell Tarly. I’ve had no truer friend than him.”

Dany gave him a pouting face, crossing her arms over her chest as she sat up. “Are we not friends?”

Her husband, her King, her greatest love gave her a leer, eyes tracing the curve of her breasts, a bit fuller now that she thought on it, almost visible through the thin tunic. “A bit more than friends, I’d say. For starters, I don’t go around having babies with my friends, Dany.”

She smirked. “I should hope not.”

Jon rose from where he’d been kneeling beside the bed, striding over to the large wooden desk that occupied one corner of the Lord’s Chambers they’d taken as their own. She watched as he reached down, grasping the long, wrapped bundle that leaned against the wall and placing it on the weathered surface before him. Curious, she rose, padding over to stand beside him on bare feet as he glanced back at her.

“I haven’t gotten to take a look at this yet, not since Gendry finished with it. I thought we should see it together, before the day steals us away from each other again.” She watched his hands as he spoke, layers of fabric peeling back to reveal a gleaming sword, ruby flashing at the hilt, flames rising from the guard. She’d seen Longclaw enough now that she knew the ripples along the sword’s length meant it was Valyrian steel. It was beautiful, she thought, smaller than the bastard sword Jon wielded but no less deadly judging by the fine edges of the blade.

“Do you know the name of the sword, Daenerys?” His words were a whisper, and for a moment she wondered why, but she looked once more along the weapons lines and curves, and realized why he spoke so quietly. She felt as if she were looking upon something holy, sacred even.

Dany shook her head, watching as his lips twitched into a smile. “There were two swords wielded by House Targaryen. Blackfyre, Aegon’s sword, not seen or spoken of in ages.” Now he grasped the sword before him by the pommel, raising it so that the morning light glinted off the steel, throwing fractures of light onto the wall. “And this sword. Dark Sister. Visenya’s sword.”

She gasped, sweeping over the weapon with new eyes, only looking away when Jon let out a deep breath. “Hells.” He was whispering once more as he gently lay the sword back on the wrappings, his eyes darting to her, full of confusion.

“Dany.” He reached out an arm, drawing her closer to him and pointing at the weapon of their ancestors. “Pick it up and tell me what you feel.”

She furrowed her brow at him, but he just nodded, waiting, offering no further explanation. Hesitantly, she wrapped her fingers around the grip, the weapon heavy in her hand but not terribly so, and raised it from the table. For a moment she felt nothing, but there, just there. Heat, she thought. A pulse of heat flared through her hand and down her arm, a lick of fire that sang through her blood.

Daenerys placed the sword back on the table, eyes as wide as his when she looked up. She gave him a nod. “It’s like fire.” He gave a dip of his chin in response, focusing once more on Dark Sister. 

“It’s almost like I can hear it calling to me. Whispering to me.” Jon sighed, running a hand down his face. “I’m fairly certain I’m going to reach my limit for just accepting these sorts of things at some point. All these coincidences, all these things that shouldn’t be but are.” He slipped his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “But there is a war to win, so I suppose today is not that day.” 

He turned, shoulders tensed as he re-wrapped the sword. “I’ve got to get some sparring in with it today. Get used to the feel, the weight of it in my hand.” Jon faced her now, jaw set firm as he tucked the bundle under an arm so he could hug her close to him with his free hand. “I don’t figure any strategy based on prophecy, or what this God or that God says, or a story from thousands of years ago. But I do know that if the Night King is defeated, it will be because I drove this sword through his fucking chest.”

\------------

Daenerys found herself mulling Jon’s words quite a bit that morning, dressing with Missandei’s help and winding her way through the stone halls of Winterfell to break her fast. It was there, as she was finishing her meal, that Arya found her.

The Queen had found herself growing very fond of the girl, who spoke what she thought and had survived unimaginable things to become lethal in her own right. She also loved to rib her brother, occasionally Sansa as well, and Dany would watch them all with a yearning heart, a family that loved each other right there before her. A family she was now a part of, a small smile gracing her lips at the thought as she watched her goodsister approach.

Arya Stark did not hesitate to seat herself loudly and ungracefully across from the Queen, grabbing a sausage from Daenerys’s plate and wolfing it down before speaking. “Were you done?” Arya asked the question as her fingers reached for another sausage, and the Queen pushed her plate over to Arya with a smile. 

“Help yourself.”

The dark-haired girl before her finished one more before wiping her fingers off against her trousers and leaning on her elbows to speak in low tones to Dany. “I checked your schedule. You’ve got a bit of time free, so I thought maybe you’d finally take me to see your dragon.”

She had promised that she would, Daenerys recalled, and Arya was right, she was not scheduled to meet with Tyrion and Sansa for another hour or two. She could allow herself a little time to get to know her new family better. She gave Jon’s sister a nod, finally earning a real smile from the usually serious-faced girl, who leapt up immediately.

“Let’s go then.” Arya took a step or two, looking over her shoulder as Daenerys rose and rounded the table, walking quickly as soon as the Queen was even with her. The girl remained silent as the pair made their way outdoors, and they were through the courtyard and past the gates of Winterfell before she finally spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Dany felt her eyes pulled to the girl, not at the question, but at the soft tone of her voice, as if she were nervous. “Of course.”

Arya’s eyes darted around, seeing no one near as they crossed the snow that coated the grounds, walking steadily towards the hill the dragons had favored since first arriving. “You have to swear not to tell anyone. Especially not Sansa. Or Jon.” Daenerys was puzzled, and she was hesitant to swear to keep secrets from Jon, but the girl’s eyes, so like her brother’s, were pleading.

“I swear.” Dany’s voice was as quiet as Arya’s but firm in the promise she was making to the girl.

“Is it true that it hurts?” Arya was speaking to the ground now as she asked, not meeting the Queen’s eyes. It struck Daenerys what the girl *might* mean, and she felt a bit surprised that Arya would ask her this, but it did make a certain sense, if the girl meant what she suspected. Arya confirmed her suspicions as she continued, still staring at the ground. “The first time, for a girl, when you…”

The girl’s cheeks were completely red now, and Dany rescued her from having to provide any more clarification. “…Join with a man, you mean?” Arya nodded at the Queen’s question.

Daenerys considered silently for a moment, then brought her hand out to stop the younger girl’s stride. “I wish I could tell you from experience. But my first time, and many times after, were violent, and done against my will.” Arya met her eyes now. “I never had a mother to tell me what I should know when it comes to the things that happen between men and women. But I have learned since that if the man loves you, if he cares for your enjoyment as much as his own, then the discomfort will not last long. And after that…” Daenerys felt herself blush a bit here. “Well, it’s certainly a rather enjoyable way to spend your time.”

Arya stared ahead, seemingly lost in thought, and continued walking. Daenerys followed, stealing glances at the girl as she matched her pace, cresting the hill and feeling a rush of warmth as her children came into view, Rhaegal curled up sleeping and Drogon simply watching, having sensed her approach.

“Is it the blacksmith, then?”

Arya’s shoulders sagged a bit at the question, not bothering to deny the reason behind her questioning as Dany gestured for her to stay back while she approached Drogon alone, giving him loving sweeps of her hand across his snout while he purred.

“May I give you some advice, Arya?” The King’s sister stared at her for long moments before nodding in assent. “Don’t rush it. When you’re ready, you’ll know.” Daenerys felt a wide grin stretch her lips as she remembered Jon’s nervous, brave face waiting on the other side of her door, a night that seemed to have been ages ago instead of months.

“Ugh.” Arya was looking at her with a playfully disgusted look. “That’s my brother you’re thinking about.” The dark-haired girl drew in a deep slow breath as Drogon arched his head in her direction, sniffed carefully before settling his head down on the ground for his mother to continue stroking. “I’ll let it pass for now, because this,” Arya gestured to Drogon, “is fucking amazing.”

\------------

** _Jaime_ **

It didn’t really strike Jaime Lannister that travelling on his own to Winterfell, to seek out Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, to pledge his sword to their cause, might have been a terrible idea. As he’d left King’s Landing, flakes of snow descending improbably so far south, he’d been convinced it was the only course of action.

It hadn’t caused him much concern when, while crossing the Riverlands, he learned of the rather dramatic destruction of House Frey. Walder Frey was no friend to him, and a rather disgusting man all things considered, so the realm was better served without him there. He’d seen from a distance that Riverrun no longer hung Lannister colors, the Tully banners hanging once more. He’d dismissed that as well, as the logical next step for whoever’d rid the Seven Kingdoms of House Frey.

And as Jaime had dismounted his horse, breath fogging the chilly night air, reins in hand as he approached the gates of Winterfell, he was still reasonably confident that his former enemies, the enemies still of his sister, his lover, the mother of his children; well, they would welcome him after he explained why he’d come. This was war, there’d be no need to foster any bad blood, it was in the past and Jaime had come to join the side that fought for the living.

This Jaime believed right up until the moment he heard a low pitched, rumbling growl. It wasn’t a dragon, no, this was a sound Jaime knew well. This was a sound that still echoed through his nightmares, when he dreamed of that night, held hostage by the Stark boy and his mother, that great wolf of the newly crowned King in the North inches from ending Jaime’s life.

It sounded much like that, and when it next sounded it was much closer, making the hair rise on the back of the Kingslayer’s neck and spooking his horse so terribly that it raced away, reins dragging loose as hooves beat swiftly against the packed snow.

He did not move. He could not move. Through the gate came a small form, nighttime shadow obscuring the figures face as it drew closer. It was hard to focus as he could now feel panting breath beating against his neck, and he wondered if this was finally it. This was how he would die, mauled by a Stark direwolf once and for all before the gates of their ancestral home. Perhaps he would deserve it; his conscience was far from clean when it came to all that the Starks had suffered.

The figure before him drew close enough that he could make out features. It was the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, just as dangerous as the wolf he could feel at his neck. She stood before him, regal, proud, clad in Northern furs, hair almost as white as the snow that stretched out like a blanket over the ground in every direction.

One more rumbling growl, right against his neck, a fang sliding against the skin as he shivered, and then the Queen gave a call, just one word. 

“Ghost.”

Jaime almost whimpered as something shifted behind him, something very large and angry slinking past him to wrap itself around this small woman, terribly beautiful and face unreadable. He was dangerously close to pissing himself then, as he realized this wolf, so recently behind him, was far larger than Robb Stark’s had been. And where the eldest Stark’s wolf shared the sort of coloring it’s smaller kin had, this wolf was quite different. White as snow, massive, with furious red eyes that made him want to beg for his life right then and there.

“Ser Jaime Lannister. I see you have arrived to join our fight, and yet…” She made a show of looking all around before her eyes met his once more. “Where are your armies? The forces your sister promised?” Her tone was innocent, but Jaime saw a knowing in her violet eyes that suggested she knew exactly what had occurred.

“It’s just me.” Jaime could hear the shame in his own voice, for himself and for Cersei’s treachery.

His head bowed, and he stared at the ground as he waited for her to say something, anything. He had no warning, then, when a strong arm grabbed him, leading him through the gate as the Queen ordered in a flat voice, “Take him to a cell, Sandor. The King and I will see to him in due time.”

Jaime looked up into the grinning face of the man who’d once served in King’s Landing with him. The man who’d once served his oldest son.

The Hound chuckled, low in his throat and menacing. “You always have been a stupid fucking cunt.”

Clegane kept laughing as he marched Jaime through the keep, down into the cells, and tossed him bodily into one before closing the gate. Jaime watched the man lock the gate, and the man made to leave, a bit of a whistle leaving his lips. This was, perhaps, more frightening than the wolf, Jaime thought. The Hound was not generally a laughing man.

“Are you going to give me a blanket? Anything?” The Kingslayer struck his golden hand against the bars to get the burned man’s attention.

“Oh, don’t you worry.” Sandor Clegane’s voice boomed out, echoing against the stone as he continued for the door. “You’ll have some company to occupy you before long. I’m sure they’ll see to your needs.”

With that, the Hound left, and Jaime could do nothing but sit down heavily on the bunk bolted to the wall and breathe in and out, misery choking him as he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off staying in King’s Landing after all.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat in silence, the sound of his own breathing the one thing keeping him company, til the door creaked open. Jaime stood, heart in his throat, hoping that Tyrion had been alerted to his presence.

It wasn’t Tyrion who strode down the hall towards him, coming to a full stop in front of his cell, staring at him contemptuously. It was a ghost. It had to be. Jaime leaned against the bars, his eyes wide, panic coursing through him as he looked at the man before him, the Ghost of Robert Baratheon come back to haunt him at last. The man even carried a Warhammer, and he slung it down from his shoulder to rest the wide head of the weapon on the ground before him.

The pair stared at each other for a few beats, until the man spoke. “Look familiar, Kingslayer?” Jaime nodded, dumbly, breathing a bit steadier as he heard the man’s voice and realized that while he looked just like Robert in his prime, he sounded nothing like him, Flea Bottom accent clear as day.

“Reckon your sister and your bastard son thought they got all of us.” Jaime was confused for a moment, awful realization hitting him as the man before him watched, nodding slowly as the blond man’s face grew drawn and grim. This was one of Robert’s bastards, perhaps the only one who’d managed to slip the trail of the Goldcloaks who’d hunted down and killed them not long after Robert’s death. “They got the rest, far as I know. Some of ‘em were girls. Some of ‘em were little babes, torn from their mother’s arms and murdered right in front of them.” Jaime backed away from the bars as the man drew closer, candlelight striking his face a bit clearer, and the Kingslayer could see he was a man, true, but barely, still some youth in his face. That did not alleviate the wariness that grew inside of him at the anger blooming across the man’s features.

“But no one cried for them, did they? No one gives a single shit who lives or dies in Flea Bottom. Not your sister. Not you. Reckon my father didn’t care much either.” Now the young man grinned, dangerous and wild. “But you didn’t get me, you sisterfucking cunt. I was there under your noses for years, working for Master Mott, before your family came for me.” The man’s face was even with Jaime’s now, and his knuckles were whitening on the handle of the Warhammer resting at his side now. “Do you think I’m going to kill you?” The whisper was little more than a his, but so full of rage that it seemed a question he should take seriously.

“Possibly.”

The young man smirked, backing away to lean against the wall and study him through the bars. “Your life isn’t mine to take, I’m afraid.” The main’s close-cropped head turned, and Jaime could barely make out the creak of hinges as the door opened once more. “But she just might.”

Jaime’s eyes flew to where the young man nodded, seeing a slight girl, covered in leathers, a small thin sword and impressive dagger strapped to her waist as she approached him slowly. He realized who this was, almost immediately, her features matured but still recognizable in this years since he’d last seen her. She walked directly up to the bars where Robert’s bastard had stood moments ago, eyes boring into his with an intensity that made his stomach drop.

“Hello, Kingslayer.” The girl drew the dagger from her belt without looking, flipping it gracefully for a few turns in her hand before bringing it before her, eyes finally dropping from his to study the blade. “I’m Arya Stark. I’m afraid the King and Queen won’t be able to receive you until the morning.” She spoke with mocking sweetness, but Jaime didn’t respond, his eyes glancing back to the blade she held up to the light, Valyrian steel unless his eyes deceived him. She sheathed it swiftly, her eyes dark and dangerous as she stood before him, hands behind her back and feet slightly spread apart. It dawned on Jaime that Ned Stark’s wildest daughter probably knew very well how to use that dagger, and the sword at her waist. And Robert’s bastard just smiled calmly at him over her shoulder, watching.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. If you lie, I will know. If you lie, Jaime Lannister, I will kill you right here, and right now.” She stepped back from the iron bars, leaning against a stretch of wall beside the Baratheon bastard. “Or maybe I’ll let him play with you a bit first. See how pretty your face looks after he’s finished.”

Jaime swallowed. “Ask me your questions. I’ve not come here to lie.”

Arya Stark’s head turned to look at the young man beside her, then swung back to him. “We’ll see.”

  
  
Chapter 19: Intimidation  
Summary:

Sansa is nervous, Sam feels guilty and Arya gets a gift.

  
  
Notes:

It didn't take 9 days this time!

  
  


** _Sansa_ **

The Lady of Winterfell sat stiffly, straight-backed and proper, awaiting the entrance of the King and Queen to the Great Hall along with the faces she was growing rather accustomed to seeing. She’d taken the seat next to one Jon would occupy, with Tyrion doing the same beside the Queen’s empty chair. She had balked initially, wanting Ser Davos to take the place as her brother’s Hand, but he’d just smiled kindly, insisting that his old knees liked standing much better than sitting.

Sansa was nervous, uneasy, teeth grinding a bit in anticipation. The morning had already proven taxing emotionally, and once things escaped the box she kept them locked rather tightly in, all the hurts and wrongs she’d endured, it was hard to force them all back inside.

Arya had pounded at her door that morning, startling her awake, and she’d risen quickly to hastily slip off the shift she’d slept in, throwing another over her head and quickly rifling through dresses to find the one she’d planned on wearing.

Her younger sister had grown too impatient, however, and had thrown the door open before Sansa could react, dress not yet covering the remembrances Ramsay Bolton had left her, and her shame had grown exponentially when she realized that it was not just Arya but Daenerys as well that stood just inside the threshold of her chambers now.

“Close the damned door, Arya!” She’d been so furious, for a moment, and yelled more loudly and harshly than she should have, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as Arya slammed the door and stalked over to her. She hadn’t even given Sansa’s back a second glance, instead staring directly into her eyes, her voice vehement and forceful as her sister’s small hand lingered over the grip of the dagger at her waist. Sansa tugged her arms into her sleeves and managed to cover herself while enduring her sister’s inspection.

“Any fucker who touches you again’s getting his cock sliced off.” Her sister’s eyes were deadly, now, the Queen silently watching from a distance, her face inscrutable.

Sansa knew Arya well enough to know that her sister was trying to comfort her, in her own strange, annoying way, and there was a hot rush of tears filling her eyes as she hugged Arya’s small frame tightly. Sansa did not linger long, releasing her sister from her grasp, sniffing a bit to bring herself back under control and composing herself before speaking sternly. “No idle threat, I know. But if you don’t start knocking I’m going to toss you into the crypts and lock you in there.”

Arya’s dark eyes were intent on her, peering at her in that way that meant she was attempting to see if Sansa was alright. A smirk flashed across her sister’s mouth. “I’d like to see you try.

Sansa was still focused on Arya when she felt a gentle tug on the back of her dress, the lacing tightening at the neck and tied securely, the sure hands of the Mother of Dragons silently strapping on Sansa’s armors just as she probably did Jon’s leathers.

Daenerys turned her then, gently, and Sansa feared the look she would see on the Queen’s face; Sympathy, pity. Perhaps some disgust mingled in at the sight of her scarred flesh. But when their eyes met, she saw none of those. There was anger, much as had been in Arya’s, but instead of sadness or pity there was only understanding. Sansa let out a shuddering breath, sharp relief mingling still with lingering shame that now her secret was known.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Arya.” The Dragon Queen, kept her eyes locked onto Sansa’s not seeing the confused look Arya sent her way at her statement. Daenerys took Sansa’s hand and led her to her dressing table, gesturing for Sansa to sit, then coming behind her to look at Sansa in the mirror as she continued. “That will not be the fate of anyone who dares hurt your sister. Or you. Or Bran. Or Jon.” Now the Queen looked at Arya, who slowly approached to stand beside their goodsister as violet eyes came back to Sansa’s. “Any who harm my family while I still draw breath will die screaming in agony, consumed by fire. And we will dance in their ashes.”

There was something about the way Daenerys Targaryen looked as she promised her own retribution on their enemies. She spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, no hesitation, no worried glances. Just a sureness that loosened something in Sansa, just a bit, something she was ashamed to admit had only tightened when Jon had promised that no one would hurt her again; It had been too fresh, then, and Ramsay Bolton still lived and Sansa had thought she would never feel safe again, no matter what anyone promised her. Something about the way Daenerys looked at her told her she knew exactly what had happened to Sansa, that she understood how powerless and out of control Sansa felt much of the time, and that she meant exactly what she said: she would not even blink at delivering justice to the very real monsters that lurked about, hidden and looking to all the world like just another man or woman.

So Sansa smiled a bit, dipping her chin in acknowledgement of the promise the Queen was making to her and her sister, to her family. 

“Do you know why I wear all these braids, Lady Stark?” The Queen was still looking at Sansa in the mirror, silver hair next to red as she posed her question. Sansa had been so distracted by the sudden entrance to her room that she hadn’t noticed that Daenerys had forgone the looser Northern hairstyle she’d been wearing since just before she and Jon married for the intricately braided and gathered style she’d worn when she arrived at Winterfell.

Arya interjected before Sansa could respond, voice eager as if the Queen was revealing some hidden Targaryen secret. “Spill it, what’re they for?”

Daenerys smirked. “The Dothraki normally wear braids, their hair growing uncut until they suffer defeat in battle. They usually wear bells to signify the number of their victories, so their enemies may hear them approaching and fear for their lives.” The Queen chuckled, pulling the long thick braid that ran down her back over her shoulder. “It’s not entirely practical in Westeros, and so instead of bells, each braid represents a victory.” In the reflection, Sansa saw Arya’s dark head peak over to run her eyes over the interwoven strands, probably counting them for herself if Sansa knew her sister. Daenerys allow Arya’s scrutiny before turning to speak to both of them, her eyes back to the mirror. “Would you allow me to braid yours, Sansa?” 

The Lady of Winterfell felt flustered, shaking her head and about to point out that she had no victories of her own, that she had earned nothing of the sort, when the Queen gave her a hard, scrutinizing look. “I know of at least three right now: It was you the Vale rode North for, to take back your home. It was you who ended Ramsay Bolton’s life, ridding the world of a monster who would have continued hurting others until the day he died. And it was you who outmaneuvered Petyr Baelish, who finally delivered justice not just for yourself but for all those whose blood was spilled in that man’s deceptions and games.”

Still Sansa protested. “I did not win those victories alone.”

“Neither did I.” The Queen tipped a brow at Sansa’s reflection. “My victories are shared with those who fought with me and for me.” Now her expression softened a bit, a smile curling the corners of her lips as she continued. “We receive one of our enemy this morning, the enemy we face to the South. It would honor me if you would allow me to armor you as I armor myself.” And her brother’s wife was so earnest, so sure, that of course she agreed.

When Sansa had looked upon herself, once the Queen had finished, she understood exactly what Daenerys meant. Two thick braids, much wider than she normally wore, trailed back from her temples, the length of her hair joining a much thicker interwoven mass of red that ran down her back, just as the Queen’s silver hair did. One other braid, her third and final victory, snaked across and through the other two and wrapped around the central gathering of hair. She was startled at how she looked, turning her head a bit this way and that and drawing in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Sansa thought to herself that this might be the first time in her whole life that she looked fierce, fearsome, like a warrior princess. It felt powerful, as if the braids were some sort of talisman to ward off her fear.

Sansa had only been able to breathe out a “Thank you”, the Queen merely squeezing her shoulders gently and ushering Arya out of the room, her sister debating whether or not she wanted braids herself because, as she put it, “she doubted she had enough fucking hair for all the braids she’d need.”

And now here she sat, waiting to face another ghost from her past, another Lannister who’d been there for an entire chapter of her life that had been the most misery she’d ever endured. Until, of course, she’d endured worse.

But she would not be afraid today. Today she would try to tame her fear, not force it away so that it could return to her in her dreams and her weakest moments. Sansa stood with the others as the doors opened at the end of the Great Hall, Jon and Daenerys walking in together, proud and regal and beautiful together, in the contrast of the picture they created. The parted as they reached the long wooden table, rounding to meet once more at their seats, Jon waiting until his wife sat to seat himself. Sansa sat then, along with the others, feeling a self-conscious smile creep onto her face as Jon saw her hair, eyes turning back to his wife’s, then scanning for Arya who stood to the side of the table with Bran, small braids circling and sweeping as best they could with the shorter length of her sister’s hair. Sansa had stopped counting after mere seconds of seeing Arya’s hair when she’d arrived, asking her sister if she’d ever considered doing things by half-measure, just sometimes.

“It appears I am now the least intimidating person in this family.” Jon’s voice was full of feigned disbelief, looking from Sansa to the Queen, and young Lady Stark knew without having to see her brother’s face that he was making those awful sad eyes at his wife.

“I would prefer that your enemies underestimate you, My King. If they truly knew what sort of opponent you were they would bring forces of such power and number, such as have never been mustered before, that we might never prevail.” Sansa saw Daenerys give her brother an indulgent smile, eyes completely on each other, and she wondered in that moment how it must be for Jon, to have someone who loved him so completely, believed in him so fully. 

“If they knew what sort of opponent you were, My Queen, then they would quickly realize they’d be better off never facing you at all.” Daenerys laughed at her brother’s returned praise, taking his hand and stroking her thumb along the back of his hand before clearing her throat slightly, the pair turning to face the doors once more.

“Then let us see why Jaime Lannister has lacked such smart decision-making.” The Queen’s tone turned surprisingly curt, Jon’s face falling into his usually stoic mask as he nodded to Davos to see their prisoner in.

\------------

** _Sam_ **

Samwell Tarly knew he should feel guilty. The Army of the Dead marched on the Wall, growing closer every day, and there were few among them who realized the true brutality and horror of their enemy than Sam. And Sam felt more alive than he’d felt in years, especially after his illusions had been shattered with finality at the Citadel.

The would-be Maester had blissfully lost himself in the research of Prince Rhaegar, book after book of handwritten notes, or volumes themselves with careful script along the margins, obviously the product of years of painstaking research and dedication. He had the silly notion that for as much as Jon was truly the best friend he’d ever had, that Rhaegar seemed a bit of a kindred spirit to Sam. He could see the angles the man had approached things from, how many different tales he’d uncovered and followed as though he were hunting through brush, beating a path to perhaps uncover a larger, deeper truth.

Jon Connington, the man known as Griff now, had been very useful in clarifying issues Sam encountered, filling in gaps in chronology or describing the context in which some of the abrupt changes in direction of the research had occurred. The older sellsword had been there, after all, for much of it, and without him Sam would not have known that it was indeed the prophecy of Azor Ahai, read by Rhaegar in a collection of tales and prophecies of Asshai, that had initially struck something in the Prince of Dragonstone. It was that tale that led him to put down his books and take up a sword and shield, turning himself into the warrior he’d originally thought he must become. Through Griff, Sam knew that Rhaegar had originally believed it to be about himself, but at some point his focus had changed, and he’d then believed it would be one of his issue.

Griff had also explained the line of text that appeared frequently within the most recent research, telling Sam that at some point between the birth of Rhaenys and Aegon, Rhaegar’s children by Elia Martell, the Crown Prince had experienced a dream of such vivid clarity that he could not call it a dream at all, but a vision. He would not explain the dream to Griff at the time, only saying that he must have three children, and that was when he began the mantra Sam’s eyes had glanced over endlessly.

“The dragon must have three heads.” Sam whispered it to himself, now. And Rhaegar’s third child, his son, his only surviving child, had a dragon of his own. He had become a King in his own right without a name, or claim, earning everything he’d ever had on merit. Sam had wondered more than once if Maester Aemon had known who Jon really was; if he’d known that while Daenerys Targaryen fought to free slaves across the Narrow Sea, Rhaegar’s son had come to serve the Watch. If he had known, Sam hoped it was a comfort to the aged man.

The problem, Sam realized, was that somewhere along the way tales had been combined or revised and blended, pushed together to form one prophecy when they’d originated from completely different sources.

As best as Sam could sort out, Azor Ahai, the Lightbringer, and The Prince or Princess who was Promised were not actually the same story. An older text of Rhaegar’s made reference to each but they had not begun to circulate at the same time, the joining of the two descriptions first occurring in a tome from Essos dedicated to R’hllor centuries later. It was an understandable mistake, the name of the hero’s sword and the task of the Promised one who would ‘Bring the Dawn” being rather similar in their verbiage.

So now Sam sat travelling the path the father of Jon’s blood had trod decades ago, searching for any clue that might aid the fight they were rapidly approaching. He reached for a slim volume he had not yet examined, flipping the cover back to scan the first page of handwritten text, more of the notes he’d found filling other similar bound books in this collection before him. This research, he realized as he scanned the page, was about dreams, dragon dreams to put a finer point on it. Sam believed they existed, had heard about them from Maester Aemon himself, knew there had been those with the blood of the dragon throughout the centuries who’d had dreams full of portent and meaning, some of which came true.

He did not realize, as he came to a new block of text, what he was reading until he was lines deep in Rhaegar’s neat script. His eyes jumped back to the beginning of the section when it dawned on him that Rhaegar had used this journal to document his dreams.

_I stand on a cliff at Dragonstone, wind whipping around me, and I hear the screech of dragons. They fly into view, larger and more beautiful than mine eyes could ever had imagined. They surround me, then, massive hulking bodies crowding closer as they examine me with eyes of gold and snouts that blast great gouts of hot air around me. Black, Green, Cream. I look at each in turn, but as I face each head on they become children of flesh and bone, and now they encircle me just as the beasts did. A girl, a boy, a boy. I try to see them clearly, my children, blood of the dragon but their faces blur as I face them, the girl and then the older of the boys now children no more but tiny dragons now, small echoes that shrivel in the sun before me. Scales of skin float away on the air and I am afraid as I turn to the last boy, the smallest, the youngest. I see his face but for a moment, eyes and hair dark where I am light. He changes, suddenly, but no sickly small dragon springs forth. He grows larger, his features now that of a wolf larger than could ever be seen. The wolf does not shift, and does not change. His eyes search mine, a startling red in the field of white fur that coats the animal. I reach a hand forward. I hear a voice, whisper-quiet. “The dragon must have three heads.” And then I awaken. This is the fourth night I have dreamed of such, and I fear for what it means._

Sam finally blinks, eyes feeling parched as he finishes reading. A single scrawl of text runs along the margin beside the account, four small words that his eyes scan.

_It was a Direwolf._

No, thought Sam. That was Ghost. That was Jon. The only child of Rhaegar’s he would never live to meet.

Sam reached for spare parchment. If there was aid to be had in all this, it would be found in dreams.

\-------------

** _Arya_ **

The simplest course of action, Arya mused, would be for her to slit Jaime Lannister’s throat right here and now, and let her do what she’d trained to do. Cersei Lannister needed to be crossed of her list, and with the face of her twin brother Arya could remove the southern threat in the time it took to reach King’s Landing on dragonback.

She knew it wasn’t an option, not really. Not yet. Her dark eyes tracked the man as he slowly approached her brother and the Queen, ready to slice him open from stem to stern if he stepped a single toe out of line. Jaime’s eyes darted to hers, widening slightly then looking away, only to see Gendry lurking nearby with a grimace on his face. She scoffed under her breath, that idiot probably thought he looked threatening, the head of his warhammer up over one shoulder, muscles in his arm large and defined.

She grit her teeth silently, forcing her eyes away from him and back onto the Kingslayer who now stood still in silence, the King and Queen stoic before him. Jon finally spoke, steepling his fingers together with his elbows before him. “Where are the Lannister forces, Ser Jaime? The aid your sister promised?”

Jon’s voice was calm, his tone even and neutral as he and his wife stared at the man. Arya shifted back over to stand beside Bran, hands on the grips as she saw the Kingslayer sigh. “They are not coming.”

“So she lied.” Daenerys did not ask. The flatly delivered statement was met with a defeated nod. The Queen eyed Jon, then turned her face back to Jaime’s, a hint of disdain wrinkling her lip a bit at she regarded him. “I’m sure none of us could have predicted that.” Her silver head tilted in consideration now, the older brother of her Hand offering nothing more. “Anything more you would like to inform the King and I of, Ser Jaime?”

Arya’s eyes flicked to Tyrion then, the Queen’s hand clearly nervous as he waited on his brother’s response. The Kingslayer had no idea that all parties there knew exactly what Cersei had done; That she’d intended to pit a hired army of sellswords against them even after the evidence of the danger had tried to attack her. And if Jaime Lannister did not disclose this, they would all know he had come at his sister’s bidding, perhaps to spy for the monstrous twin he’d fathered three children on. She very strongly doubted Jaime Lannister’s head would remain on his body for much longer after that.

“Euron Greyjoy didn’t flee to the Iron Islands.” Jaime sighed. “He went to the Free Cities and hired the Golden Company.” Arya was surprised to see the man actually looked angry, as if he’d been unaware of the depths of evil Cersei Lannister was capable of reaching. “As soon as I found out I left. They might already have landed in Westeros by now.”

“Indeed they have, Ser Jaime Lannister.” Griff, the former Lord Jon Connington, peeled himself away from the shadows, his voice echoing around the stone walls as the Kingslayer’s head whipped around then tracked the man’s path as he came to stand before the King and Queen beside Jamie.

The man’s eyes were wider than she’d thought eyes could grow, breathing out, “Rooster!”, in a harsh whisper. Griff scowled at the man, eyes narrowing as Jaime regained his voice and continued a little more loudly. “I thought you were dead.”

“Good. I spread that rumor for years before it finally stuck.” The older man regarded Jaime thoughtfully. “I know you aren’t the smartest Lannister, but surely even you can understand what it means if I am here.” Jaime considered his words then turned to face Jon and Daenerys.

“You already knew.” Jaime glanced down, then up to his brother. “You wanted to see if I would lie?”

Tyrion smiled wanly. “Imagine my relief that you did not. I’d prefer you remained alive, if at all possible.”

Jaime looked next at Brienne of Tarth, who looked visibly relieved and gave him a solemn dip of her chin. He turned back to her brother when Jon finally asked, “Why are you here, Ser Jaime?”

“To fight. The only thing I have to offer is to be a sword in your army.” Jaime could not keep Jon’s gaze, finally, the Kingslayer’s face creased with something that looked suspiciously like sadness, and sounded even more like regret. “I’m a dead man one way or another, but I’m going to die doing the right thing. Fighting on the right side.”

Jon and Daenerys watched him, the Queen speaking once more. “We welcome your sword, Ser Jaime. The King and I are willing to put aside our personal grievances with your family to fight a much larger threat.” Arya watched as the doors opened, slowly and quietly this time, and her brother’s men held them ajar as Ghost slipped into the room, silently approaching Jaime Lannister until he stood mere feet from the man.

“This is war, Ser Jaime, with far larger stakes than your sister’s political games.” Jon spoke next, Ghost finally beginning to growl as Jon finished. “There will be no second chance to regain your honor. This is your only chance. We cannot allow potential liabilities from within once this fight begins, as you should well understand.” Jon sighed a bit, leaning back, face stony and resolute now. “Betray us and your only choice will be whether your life is ended by my wolf or the Queen’s dragon.”

“It won’t come to that.” She was taken aback a bit by the assurance in the Kingslayer’s voice, making the instantly stupid decision to glance at Gendry, who scoffed disbelievingly at the man’s words. Gods. She wanted to ram her fist into his stupid handsome face, this completely foolish ass who’d had the fucking nerve to kiss her. And then he acted like nothing had happened. 

He hadn’t tried it again. And that had been a few days ago.

She was going to kiss him soon, she thought, watching as Jon and Daenerys accepted Ser Jaime’s assurance, with Jon instructing Davos and Sansa to find accommodations for the man. People seemed to be making to leave, the King and Queen rising and exiting together this time heads together as they spoke quietly. Arya gripped the handles of Bran’s chair, making to start the trek to the Godswood when Sansa slipped up to her, sinuously sliding her hands onto the grips and pushing Bran herself as she called out to Arya, “I’ll take Bran with me, Arya, it’s no trouble.”

She wasn’t sure why until she heard him call from behind her, “Oi! Arya!” She turned around slowly, her face as bored as she could possibly make it appear, thankful of the training that had taught her the skill to mask her frustrations.

Gendry sensed nothing out of the ordinary, gesturing emphatically for her to follow him, and she fought the urge for a beat before she followed, hating that she seemed unable to stop herself.

She hadn’t known what kissing was actually like, and really hadn’t understood what all the fuss was over.

Now she knew. And she was starting to think Gendry was waiting for her to act first this time. She had pushed him completely to the ground when he kissed her, more shocked than anything else.

She hadn’t regretted it at first, in the heat of the moment, her face flushed and her pulse pounding in her head. Arya did now, but she’d made an error and she would correct it. Or he’d act like an ass and she’d punch him.

She quickened her pace until she pulled even with him, not speaking as they walked together, until Gendry asked, “You met my father, right?”

The question surprised her. “Unfortunately. All I remember is a very fat man with a red face and a big beard who smelled like wine all the time.” 

Gendry groaned, a look of misery so swiftly overtaking him that the laugh that bubbled up her chest was free before she caught it. His eyes shot to hers at the sound, considering her seriously for a moment before rubbing a hand down his face, the other still holding that stupid hammer to his shoulder. “All I keep hearing, from people who knew him when he was young, is how much I look like him. Fucking depressing future ahead of me.”

“I’m sure it will be if you keep whinging like a fucking baby.” Arya wondered if he would be offended, he never seemed to be, and sure enough he just snorted at her, smiling as they approached the forges. She trailed him as he walked back to what she now knew was his work area, have learned through various investigations that Gendry was by far the most skilled blacksmith at Winterfell, and Jon given him oversight of the production of the dragonglass weapons that were filling carts stationed around the room. 

“That’s no way to talk to someone who made you something.” He pointed at the worktable before him, indicating she should sit. She did slowly, not wanting him to get the impression she was going to start accepting wordless orders from him like she was a fucking dog. Arya scowled as he placed something in front of her, then just stood there. He looked from her, to the leather pouch before her, rectangular and hiding whatever lay beneath. 

“Are you quite finished?” She kept her tone disinterested, though now her palms itched to raise the flap and see what was inside. 

“Open it already, for fuck’s sake.” He seemed genuinely exasperated now, so Arya raised the flap.

Gendry had made her a set of throwing knives. And they were very fine, well-balanced as she hefted one in her hand then turned it to examine it more closely. There was a direwolf sigil, the sigil of her House, on each grip.

“They’re…”

Her eyes shot to his now, standing to face him as she lay the knife back down. “I know what they are you fucking idiot.”

Then Arya kissed him, because there was no other option now. She knew he had been spending long hours every day to make sure the dragonglass was processed. He didn’t have much free time, and he’d spent it making this. For her.

Arya kissed him, forcefully, lips clinging to his and nipping his bottom lip, and when his lips parted from it she slipped her tongue into his mouth, his moan drawing one from her as he returned her attentions with equal enthusiasm, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her feel as if everything inside her was molten and liquid. Her hands slid around his neck, Gendry’s coming to rest on her waist. 

For a few moments she didn’t care about anything else but the feel of his mouth against hers, heat flushing through her in a way that seemed completely foreign but amazingly satisfying, until he broke the contact.

He looked down at her for seconds that seemed to stretch into years, finally speaking in a deadly calm voice as their hands dropped from each other. “D’you know what the problem is Arya?”

Arya did not drop her gaze, her eyes steady on his. “I think I’m looking at it.”

Gendry barked a laugh, teeth flashing at her. “If I shove you onto your ass now, like you did to me, you’ll kill me with the very present I made for you.”

“Amusing that you think you could.” She glared at it him, but she didn’t mean it, and she could tell he knew it.

“Go try ‘em, you ungrateful shit.” He walked over towards the anvil, gathering rods for heating and starting to stoke the heat of the forge. “I can’t stand around all day kissing pretty girls, I have work to do.”

She grabbed the pouch, yelling over her shoulder, “I might actually thank you if they aren’t completely awful!” Arya did not look back, and kept her pace steady and her feet sure as she walked back through the keep and to her chambers, leaning back heavily against the wooden door for a moment and letting out a breath she felt like she’d been holding forever.

Arya sat on her bed, blankets creasing under her as she lay the pouch before her, opening it and running a finger along the steel. She finally allowed the smile free that had been threatening since he’d called her pretty. It wasn’t usually one of those things that she concerned herself with; she wasn’t going to be beautiful like Sansa. And when Hot Pie had called her pretty, as she’d devoured his surprisingly good pie and gulped down ale, she’d shrugged it off, figuring Hot Pie probably thought anything even close to having tits was pretty. But she hadn’t really put much thought into what Gendry’s opinion was, and she certainly hadn’t planned to ask anyway. It didn’t matter, anyway.

Except it did, a little. And he’d made her something, just because he wanted to. Not some silly girl’s gift. He’d made her something as sharp as she was.

These were very fine blades, indeed.

  
  
Chapter 20: An Oath for the Old Gods  
Summary:

Jon *did* promise she could pick a tree...

  
  
Notes:

DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK

Eh, just kidding. It's been awhile, friends, and while this chapter has been languishing on my hard drive I hope it's enough to get you over the hump to the Jaime/Griff chapter to follow!

  
  


_ **Jon** _

The Godswood was still tonight, free of visitors. Bran had been escorted to his rooms for the evening, after meeting with Jon and Daenerys to discuss what he had managed to see throughout the day. The King knew time was running short, that within the fortnight this war would be waged. Jon breathed in the frigid air slowly, exhaling through parted lips and watching it fog the air as his Queen walked closely beside him.

There was a sense that rang within him, same as it did with his brother, this all-seeing Three-Eyed Raven, that the Wall would surely fall. Be it premonition or merely fear, it was slowly icing his veins with each day that passed.

The forces bound for Last Hearth had already departed, along with those to comprise the defense of the Dreadfort and Karhold. Their best option was to ring them in, as best they could, containing the threat that emerged from Eastwatch from all possible sides. And on the morrow Davos and Griff would ride hard for the Dreadfort and Karhold themselves, preparing each location for an evacuation by river if necessary. A fleet from Essos had been sent for almost immediately the day he’d asked the two seasoned captains to handle this part of the plan, and would reach the mouths of the rivers that would carry survivors from both keeps to the tentative safety of the ships that would anchor as closely as possible. 

Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, did not yet know that Jon would fly him to Last Hearth himself, a fortnight not enough time for the man to reach the Keep on horseback. That required, agreed upon by both his advisors and he and the queen themselves, that Jon tell Jaime the truth of himself. At least of his parentage; other details were not necessarily required for Ser Jaime to understand why a man known to him as Ned Stark’s bastard commanded a dragon himself. It was a decision that twisted in his gut, information that seemed personal and not something he wanted to disclose to a man who’d played a large part in the destruction of his family.

But when he’d mentioned it to Bran that very night his brother had grown still, eyes hazing with a look that Jon knew meant he was seeing into the past. Within a few minutes time Bran had heaved a great sigh, focusing on Jon with sharp eyes.

“He wept, Jon. When he learned what his own father had ordered, what the Mountain had done to Elia. To your brother and sister. Ser Jaime admired your father, he looked up to him.” Bran had twisted a hand in the furs at his lap, warming them. “I believe the truth may inspire more loyalty than less, Jon. Ser Jaime seeks redemption in coming here. Cersei threatened to kill him as he left, I have seen it. And still he came.” It was only then that Jon had felt any ease at having to make this disclosure. He did not trust the Lannister man, but he trusted Bran, and he would believe his brother’s assurances.

After tonight everything would change. Those who would take part in the fight outside the ancient Keep of Winterfell would depart. Jon would not be parted from his wife, not yet; That they would delay until absolutely necessary, only possible in that they both had bonded Dragons to ferry Jon quickly to Last Hearth and Daenerys to Karhold. Then they would be parted, yes, but not a moment before they must. It was the one selfish thing they had agreed to claim for themselves. 

He wanted desperately to be with her, to see her grow large with his babe; Sam had reassured him that she fared well, that his child grew, finding nothing at all concerning in his examination of her condition. And there was no sweeter feel than that slight swell beneath his palm as sleep claimed him, that sense of life beneath his very hand, the one thing he’d wanted for her more than anything from that first insistence that she could bear no living child of her own. 

The truth was that he would likely miss that sight, Daenerys heavy with his child, as he could not bring himself to believe this war would be quickly won unless he found the Night King straightaway, and Bran still could not pierce whatever veil had been thrown between them, blocking his sight. He would have hope, wherever he could manage it, but he would not delude himself with it.

“I can almost see how heavy your thoughts are, Jon.” There was a hint of teasing in the Queen’s voice, and he slowed them to a halt as they walked the Godswood alone. Alone was something he had requested of all their guards, tonight. She smiled knowingly, small hand rising and tweaking his cheek playfully. “I see you’ve decided to ply your wife with those terribly attractive, brooding faces you used on her at Dragonstone.” 

“Mmmmm.” Jon hummed noncommittally. “I don’t seem to recall them actually working at Dragonstone.” He grinned at her as she brought her face to his, nose rubbing against his gently as she raised her lips to hover below his. 

“Oh, they worked, Jon. I would never have agreed to *sail together* if I did not intend to have you in my bed, of that you can be sure.” Her lips pressed playfully against his, lingering a beat before pulling away. “But, of course,” her face grew stern, grim, “my first priority was certainly that it send the right message.” Jon couldn’t help but chuckle, low in his throat, bringing his arms around her and drawing her against him.

“I was rather surprised that worked. Although, it would be fair to tell you that I was still not sure we were of the same mind.” His wife’s eyes widened and she laughed merrily at the bashful half-smile on his face when she realized he had not spoken in jest.

“Oh, Jon. I thought the only way to make my meaning clearer would’ve been telling you directly that I expected you in my rooms in a minimal amount of clothing right there in front of all my advisors and yours.” Dany chuckled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cold nose. “I thought I was being rather obvious.”

Jon moved to capture her lips, savoring the sweetness of each with a swipe of his tongue then parting them gently, sweeping into her mouth and tasting a hint of the lemon cakes they’d had for dessert. He fit his mouth more perfectly against hers, feeling her hand slide up his neck and fist into the curls there, tugging gently as she arched into him. The sound of her gentle moan into his mouth made him break the kiss, and he did not miss the confused look on her face as he turned her to face the mass of trees surrounding them. “I seem to recall promising that you could pick a tree, Dany. Do you remember?”

There was a beat of silence and then a wicked low laugh that further stirred the desire that had simmered for her all day. “I do.” Her silver crown of hair slipped against his chest as she peeked over her shoulder at him, and he should have realized what she was up to already, but that devious look on her face only served to bewitch him further as she pulled away, walking backwards a few paces before turning, poised to dash away. “I know just the one, Jon.” Then she was off, sprinting as fast as she could, cloak snapping behind her as she called out, “You’d better catch your bride, King in the North!”

Jon laughed as he ran, knowing the Godswood with a familiarity that allow him to run almost unhindered after her, catching a flash of her hair here, or the sound of a muffled giggle there before she was off again. He came to a sudden halt to see her leaning against the rough bark of a tree, waiting for him. “Hmmm.” Daenerys tipped her head to the side as she ran a hand over the bark, as if testing it. “Too rough.” And she darted off once more.

On and on he chased until he found himself in the quiet sanctuary of the Heart Tree they’d wed before, the Heart Tree that had seen thousands of generations of Starks live and die before it’s watchful eyes. And there was his wife, seated on the very stone his father had sat upon to sharpen his blade. His Queen watched as he approached, face calm and brow smooth as he claimed a patch of the stone for himself, grabbing her hand gently.

“Found you. You’re faster than you look, in case you were curious.” Jon looked around as she chuckled, her hand squeezing his. “Did you give up on finding a tree?”

Dany met his eyes, smiling slowly as she shook her head. “No, Jon.” She cast her eyes back to the Heart Tree. “I choose that one.”

Jon hung his head, groaning teasingly as she laughed. “You tempt the disfavor of the Old Ones with such wickedness, my Queen.” His answering chuckle was cut short as she deftly planted herself on his lap, skirts bunched around his thighs as she tipped his chin up with a slender finger, her lips now hovering above his.

“Pity. It was not the Old Ones I meant to tempt with such wickedness.” 

Gods be good, when she whispered to him so softly, when she looked at him as if she would devour him whole if she could there was no alternative left to him but to submit to her wishes. Her wishes were his as well, an unspoken well of hunger and possession that ran deeper than the roots of the Heart Tree before them, a need to have each other with such urgency that he had lifted her almost unconsciously at the image she had sparked in his mind.

And it was dreadfully easy to plant her solidly against that ancient tree, easier still to slide a hand up the smooth length of bare thigh, to find her wet and hot and wanting him in a way that still sent a shiver of surprise down his spine, no matter how often he’d held her against him.

It was so easy to loosen his own trousers as she wrapped her arms around his neck, trusting that he would hold her steady, her lips open and her breath fanning waves of heat as potent as dragonfire against his neck as he thrust into her, easy to answer her keening cry with one of his own as he drove into her, his hands like iron as he gripped her hips, knowing no other feeling just then but that this, with her, this was the only real thing that existed.

He let go of his control then, let his teeth scrape and bite at the tender skin of her neck, gloried in the feel of her hands flexing and clawing at his back as she bucked against him, the roll and sway of her hips against his a melody that drove the dance of his own body against her, into her, into a crescendo that made his eyes water with the force of it. She was crying out his name, now, her own release a grasping, demanding pull that drew him deeper into her, the frantic pulse of his seed filling her as her walls fluttered and her eyes closed with a thready moan.

He could not live without her. 

But soon, he must.

Jon touched his forehead to hers, their breath mingling in ragged, harsh exhales as she smiled at him, sated, with eyes both tender and bittersweet as they met his.

“You will come back to me, Jon.” Her voice caught. “Swear it. Swear it before your Old Ones.”

The King in the North could not deny her this, either. He could deny her nothing, not anymore. “I swear it, Dany. I swear it before the Old Gods, I will always find you, love. I swear it.”

He kissed her softly, gently, his lips loathe to leave the safe haven of hers. But he was most regretful to withdraw from her body, righting himself and her as best he could before lowering her to stand on legs that he suspected felt as weak as his own.

Tomorrow things would change, but tonight he could just be Jon, and she could just be Dany, and they would belong only to each other.

  
  
Chapter 21: A Great and Terrible Wrong  
Summary:

Bran bids his family farewell, and Jaime learns the truth.

  
  
Notes:

One more update, just because. A very warm thank you to all who have continued to stick with this even through a rather long hiatus!

  
  


** _Bran_ **

His chair had become a prison, his real body chaining him to the confines of what could be seen from the rickety contraption, but Bran would be free, now, free forever, but he dared not tell Jon such news.

Dawn was still an hour away, this much he could feel, his power now grown to the point that he could feel what the animals could, his soul reaching their consciousness without the aid of weirwood or warging as he watched Jon pace the frosty field before the two dragons huddled upon the snowy hill. Sansa and Arya had positioned themselves behind him, their presence a small comfort, at least to what remained of the boy he used to be.

But there was only a small piece of him left, this much Bran knew. Only a sliver of the boy he was, the man he might have become barely lived on in what he was now. The Isle of Faces called him, the power he needed to become what he must be singing sweetly to him even in his dreamless sleep.

He was the Three-Eyed Raven, and he must do what he was born to do.

Daenerys stopped his brother’s frantic circuit, comforting her King with both look and touch, and he reached for what remained of his humanity as Jon crouched before him, sad wolf eyes peering at him underneath a brow heavy with grief.

“Are you sure, Bran? I could take you myself, I want to…” Jon’s words halted at a pointed look from Bran, and he wished that he could comfort this man before him, his brother, his cousin, the King they had all chosen as their own. The words would not come, though, because the truth would give Jon no comfort at all.

Bran knew he would never see his family again.

It was best to leave them now, to part while he still remembered who he was, and who they were.

“It’s better this way, Jon. You know it as well as I do.” Bran sighed, as he saw the truth of his words settle over Jon’s face. Arya’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly, Sansa’s repeating the gesture as his sisters grasped his covered skin, searching for contact. He knew they did this for their own comfort as much as for his, but the only comfort he could give them in return was but a reminder for the coming days.

He peered at them both now, gesturing for them to join Jon before him, and they did, these last three who shared the blood in his veins, as the Dragon Queen looked on from behind the King’s shoulder.

“Remember this, above all else.” Silence reigned in the stillness of the moment, his voice ringing in his own ears with power. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Protect each other.” He looked at each of them in turn, his father’s words a familiar weight on his tongue. His eyes looked to the silver-haired woman who had captured his brother’s heart, the Dragon Queen of House Targaryen. “Protect your Queen and the babe she carries, else all is lost.”

His sisters gasped, but Jon merely gave him a grim smile, rising and lifting Bran from the chair that had been his home and his legs, carrying him like a babe to the great black dragon who waited with lowered wing, ready to carry him on the last journey his body would ever take. He watched, perched atop the dragon named Drogon, as his sisters waved their hands in farewell, both fighting back tears. He saw Jon wave bleakly as the Queen drew her arms around Bran's slight form, his useless legs straddling the beast's back, and he broke his brother's stare only to give one last look at the home of his childhood, the home he would now fight to save.

He understood how Jojen must have felt, now, knowing that his life was but forfeit to the Gods but serving them nonetheless. 

And Bran could only hope that now, now that he knew what he must do, that it was not already too late.

\------------

** _Griff_ **

Jon Connington eyed the Kingslayer as they broke their fast together in the Great Hall of Winterfell, an eye on the sun as it rose in the sky, thankful for a rare clearing of the clouds as the minutes ticked by. The King would be expecting them soon.

“I appreciate, Jaime, that you must be relieved to take a meal as a free man, but by the Gods could you hurry?” Griff threw a glance to the King’s sisters, who mournfully ate with faces bleak and withdrawn. He knew Daenerys had already departed with the boy Bran, the little Lord whose legs no longer work but whose mind could travel where others dared not tread.

When Griff’s gaze returned to the Lannister man it was to find him studying his expression carefully, and he shoveled in a few more haphazard bites before shooting a doleful look to the former Lord of Griffin’s Roost.

“If we were in a rush, Rooster, you might have mentioned it before now.” 

He had an arse-kicking headed his way, this Kingslayer, one that was long overdue, but now was not the time for such long-awaited indulgence, and so Griff merely ground his teeth together and rose, roughly gesturing for Jaime to follow him as they left the hall, his pace hurried as he made for the stables.

Ser Jaime Lannister hurried behind the red-haired man, his eyes widening in surprise to see the Hound waiting at the ready. The scarred man merely grunted at Griff, handing over the reins to both mares while he glared intimidatingly at the Kingslayer, who rolled his eyes and glared crossly back until Griff slapped the leather restraints of Jaime’s mount against his chest.

“Remember the Queen’s orders, Griff.” The Hound muttered the words and was gone before Griff could reply, but he heard Rhaegar’s sister’s words in his mind once more.

_“If he refuses to swear himself to Jon, you will not hesitate, Griff. You will end his life without delay. I will lose nothing else to the Lannisters.”_

He nodded grimly to himself, climbing onto his mare and watching as Jaime Lannister did the same.

“Let’s go.” 

\------------

He knew where to stop, knew where Jon would meet them because the direwolf Ghost stood ready, almost invisible to the eye on these snowy hills save for the sunlight that showed Griff the great beast’s shadow upon the icy ground. 

Griff dismounted quickly, his eyes to the sky, but there was no sign of the King or his dragon. That was not too terribly unfortunate, however, as there were things to discuss with Jaime Lannister before Jon arrived, things he must be prepared for before the King in the North arrived on his green dragon.

The Kingslayer was slower to dismount, his eyes warily focused on Ghost, and he dared not approach near where the great wolf stood, staying close to Griff’s side as he looked askance at the man who’d once been Rhaegar’s dearest friend in the world.

“You will pardon my suspicions, Rooster, but have you brought me out here to kill me?” Jaime turned in a slow circle before his blue eyes met Griff’s, the question said with the tone of a jest but his gaze all too serious as he awaited the answer.

Griff scoffed, both at the nickname and the accusation, not missing the worry that pierced the blond man’s eyes. “Wouldn’t need to leave the Keep for that. I could’ve just set the King’s sister on you, let her have that pretty face of yours.”

Jaime grimaced, and Griff couldn’t help but chuckle as he reached into his leather bag, pulling two rolled scrolls from the depths and passing one to the Kingslayer for his perusal.

“What’s this?” Ser Jaime began to unroll the scroll but his focus remained on Griff, who let out a heavy sigh and tucked a hand into his doublet for warmth.

“A long time ago, Ser Jaime Lannister, we both swore ourselves to House Targaryen.” He pressed his lips together briefly, fighting to keep his emotions in check. “We swore to protect them and serve them with our very lives. Do you remember?” Griff remembered, even if Jaime did not. It had been at Harrenhal that Jaime had been named to the Kingsguard, cocky and earnest; A Lannister, yes, but not the worst of them.

Jaime nodded, his good hand clutching the thin paper as it flapped in the chilled wind that nipped at their exposed skin, listening intently now as Griff continued.

“Then they were gone.” Griff shook his head, the loss still so fresh in his mind, so very raw in his heart. “But fate has given us another chance, Jaime. A chance to right the wrongs of the past, a chance to serve them once more.”

Jaime Lannister looked at him in confusion. “I have already sworn my sword to the Queen, Griff, and her northern King. What more would they ask of me?”

Griff let his eyes fall to the scroll in the Kingslayer’s grasp. “Read it.”

“Let it be known that I, High Septon Maynard, by my hand and my seal, did on this day issue an annulment to His Grace Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Princess Elia Martell, by the authority vested unto me by the Seven themselves.” Jaime stopped, his voice dropping to a whisper as he spoke the message aloud. “Is this real?”

Griff nodded, smiling grimly. “Very real.”

Jaime swallowed, eyes darting about and passing the scroll back into Griff’s waiting hand. “It’s surprising, to be sure, but what has this to do with the Queen?”

He spared the Kingslayer the task of unrolling the second scroll, this one much more precious and one he would not risk as a sacrifice to the icy winter winds. “Now this one.”

“Let it be known that I, High Septon Maynard, by my hand and my seal, did on this day wed His Grace Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell…” Jaime’s voiced had disappeared, it seemed, his mouth hanging open slightly in what appeared to be shock as Griff merely stared and waited.

“It was a lie.” It was not a question, and Griff gave no answer but a slight nod, needing no clarification in what Jaime Lannister meant. “It was all a lie. That entire fucking war.” Now he was forceful, this Lion of Casterly Rock, shoving the paper back at Griff and scrubbing his hand across his face. “All that death, for what? Because Robert didn’t get his fucking way?” There was venom in his voice, an anger that Griff was almost surprised to see in the blond man. “How very typical. That fat shit never could lose gracefully.”

Griff tucked the scrolls away, the only written record left of what had transpired there in Dorne, and turned swiftly at the screeching call that announced his King would land soon. He did not miss the fear that flashed across his companion’s eyes as they, too, scanned the skies for signs of the dragon that approached.

“If they had lived, Jaime…” Griff’s voice brought the knight’s attention back to him. “If Rhaenys had lived. If little Aegon had lived.” He stared hard at Tywin’s son, commanding him with his gaze to listen very closely now. “Would you have protected them with your life? Would you have seen them live even if it meant death for your own family? Your father? Your sister?”

Jaime’s only reply was a whisper, pained and heavy with guilt. “Yes. I swore to him I would protect them.” The man took a shaky breath. “I failed him.”

“Fate has given us both another chance, Jaime. One last chance to serve Rhaegar, to serve his child.” Confusion flashed across the Kingslayer’s face at Griff’s words, but it did not last long.

Because Jon Snow’s dragon came screaming across the sky, making a wide turn as the King must have spotted them, banking and landing with a great thunderous force that shook the snow from the nearby trees, the raven haired man’s wolf howling in greeting as Rhaegal’s golden eyes studied the men who waited for his rider to approach.

He saw the very moment the truth dawned on Jaime Lannister, saw his face fall slack as he realized it was Jon and not the Queen who climbed off this great beast. He saw the shock wash across that handsome visage as Jaime realized what it meant, who Jon Snow really was. He saw the horror and the awe when the man realized just what it was that Ned Stark had done, this great and terrible secret that had been kept right under the noses of the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Jaime Lannister fell to his knees then, as though he could no longer support his own weight under the burden of such news as this. He was heartened, though he would rather not admit such, to see the watery blue of the Kingslayer’s eyes, as he realized the enormity of what this all meant, what it truly meant.

For one tiny, fleeting moment Griff fancied that it was joy that flashed across the man’s features, a joy he knew all to well for himself. The joy that accompanied a second chance, the opportunity to right an incredibly tragic wrong. 

Jaime rose swiftly, staring at Jon Snow with new eyes as he approached the pair of men, drawing his sword as the King came to a stop. He drew his sword, and for one tense heartbeat Griff feared he had been all wrong about this, but he had no more grasped the pommel of his own steel than the Kingslayer planted the tip of his sword in the snow before him, kneeling before Rhaegar’s son with his golden head dipped low.

“I swore my steel to your cause before now, Your Grace.” Jaime’s eyes shot up, focusing on the flinty grey of the King’s. Lyanna’s eyes, they truly were, and Jon Snow watched in silence as the Kingslayer continued. “But I swear my life to you, and your Queen, for now and always. I will gladly give in protection of yours.” Jaime gave a gasping sigh, overcome, a lone tear streaking wetly down his cheek as he looked up in supplication. “I will serve House Targaryen until my dying day. I owe your father that much and more.”

Jon studied the Lannister man, his eyes thoughtful as they looked to Griff then, who gave an affirmative dip of his chin. He believed Jaime’s intent was true, at least in this.

“Rise, Ser Jaime.” The golden-haired man did just that, sheathing his sword at he gazed upon Jon Snow’s features now in poorly concealed wonder. “It is not your protection I require, not just now.” The King turned, looking upon his dragon, the green behemoth watching as Ghost crouched low before his snout, yipping and sliding playfully to and fro as the dragon snapped his teeth, as though the two played a game only they knew. “I ask only that you fight by my side, that you help me lead our forces at Last Hearth. I ask that you help me fight for the living, to save those who cannot save themselves. Can you swear it?”

The words had barely ceased falling from the King’s lips before Jaime answered, swiftly and without hesitation. “I swear it.” Jaime swallowed hard and cast his eyes to the ground. “It would be an honor I do not deserve.”

Jon Snow chuckled, walking to his dragon now and giving a rough sweep of his hand to his direwolf. “Come then, Jaime Lannister.”

Blue eyes met Griff’s in panicked confusion as he looked from the King to the dragon. “You don’t mean…”

“Yes, Ser Jaime. The journey is far too long for horseback, and I have much to plan.” He waved the Kingslayer forward, putting a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “Today, you shall fly.” 

And then, lowly, but loud enough for Griff to hear as he slowly trailed behind the two men, Jon Snow made one last remark, the words lingering in the air with the weight of a curse, or promise. Perhaps, Griff thought, it was a bit of both.

“Your family has stolen much from mine, my Lord. Betray me, Ser Jaime, and my dragon will end you in most painful fashion. And I can promise that I will enjoy watching you burn.”

  



End file.
